


Magic in the Moonlight

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also: Charlie is the Best, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Birds, Dean has anxiety, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Pie, References to the Beatles, The Shining References, Witch Charlie Bradbury, Witch Mary Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Once upon a time a boy named Dean lived with his mother, father, and little brother in a world filled with magic. When tragic circumstances left the young brothers without a mom, their father declared that no magic would touch their lives ever again.Years later Dean’s brother has learned to live with magic again, but Dean still lives on the outskirts of town, choosing to befriend the birds in his backyard rather than try to build relationships with people who use magic for nearly everything in life.But then, one ordinary February morning, two things happen that turn Dean’s world upside down: a magical accident leads to him making a most surprising new friend, and a very out-of-place bird--bright blue with messy black feathers on its head and a rather captivating gaze--shows up in his backyard.Suddenly Dean is facing magic again, in very unexpected ways. Can he fly these turbulent skies to find his happily ever after?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 84
Kudos: 216
Collections: DCBB 2019, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe it. I honestly don't believe it!
> 
> It's actually time for my very first Dean/Cas Big Bang to be posted!!!
> 
> I started writing this story in November 2018 (NaNoWriMo is so great for motivation!) and have been so eagerly anticipating this day...pretty much since then. This story's been banging at the inside of my brain since about six months before that even, but it took awhile for me to be convinced that I could actually write something this long. (and hey, look--I did!)
> 
> To [bend-me-shape-me](https://bend-me-shape-me.tumblr.com): Vanessa! I hardly know how to thank you. You're my biggest cheerleader. You're the one I bounce ideas off of. The one who listens to my random ramblings. You're my first reader, and an incredible friend. You patiently try to answer my random questions (will people honestly suspend disbelief when I tell them cars are made with iron but a baker's oven _isn't_??)You shaped this story in ways you don't even realize--way back when I first started writing I was trying to figure out what music Mary would have listened to. You reminded me of her singing to Dean and said, "The Beatles." So not only does Dean have his mom's old Beatles albums, but I listened to them almost exclusively while I wrote. So your fingerprints are all over this! I hope you like it. 💙
> 
> To [wanderingcas](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com): Sam, you're always there! So of course when I was looking for a beta you volunteered. THANK YOU. And thank you for your almost daily encouragement. I've never forgotten that you're the one who encouraged me to start posting my fic in the first place. (Wow, that was...nearly three years ago now. Where would I be without you??!) 💙
> 
> And to [KayRoseBee](https://kayrosebee.tumblr.com): Kay, you took my words and breathed _life_ into them...how can I thank you for that?? Not only that, but you went above and beyond, making the awesome chapter cards that I love so much (even though I thought I was going to lose my mind trying to actually get them on every chapter...!). Thank you for everything. (And honestly, I need to figure out how to get a decent print of Dean and the jay. It belongs on my wall. 💙)
> 
> [Link to art masterpost](https://kayrosebee.tumblr.com/post/189008276636/here-are-my-art-pieces-for-magic-in-the)
> 
> ~Stacy  
LiraelClayr007 (ao3)  
[ialwayscomewhenyoucall](https://ialwayscomewhenyoucall.tumblr.com) (tumblr)

Most fairy tales begin with “once upon a time.” They begin with a handsome prince or a beautiful princess, with an evil step-parent or a wicked witch, with enchanting magic or a frightful curse.

This story, however, is not like most fairy tales.

This story has no royalty; in fact, our hero lives in a land with a president, not a king or a queen. There are no step-parents, evil or otherwise. And while there is plenty of magic, on most days it leaves our hero alone.

As for the witches...well, we’ll get to them later.

It does have a tragedy, and friendship, and a fairy tale ending, and I promise there will be kisses. (What kind of fairy tale doesn’t have kisses?)

But our story, it begins simply and quietly, with a man, a cup of coffee, and some birds.

Dean wraps his fingers around his mug of coffee, warming them. These late February days are getting warmer, but the mornings are still cold enough that he needs a coat to sit on his deck. He knows he should probably stay inside, but the winter was too long. He’s had glass between him and his birds long enough.

The corner of his mouth turns up at the thought. _His _birds. They aren’t his, not really. He puts out food for them year round, so they always visit. So, so many of them. Some days he refills the feeders several times because it’s so busy in his backyard. But these birds, they can fly free, here and there and anywhere they choose. He only thinks of them as his because it seems like he’s the only one who ever notices them, their grace and beauty. Everyone else, they are distracted by...other things.

It’s mostly chickadees and sparrows this morning. He’s always liked the many calls of the chickadees, from the trilling “chick-a-dee-dee-dee,” to the songlike gargle, to the sweet lowing “fee-bee”. He often finds himself echoing that one back. It almost feels like they’re having a conversation. And just like that, he hears Sam’s voice in his head. “Dean,” his brother tells him, “stop talking to those birds. Go out and talk to some _actual people_. Make some friends!”

Dean sighs, sipping his coffee. As if it’s that easy. It’s not like Dean’s shy. He loves being around people. But conversations always turn to…

And no one understands.

Shaking his head, Dean looks back at the birds. Why do his thoughts keep turning downward this morning? It’s the first morning since that week of warm weather in mid-December he’s been able to sit on his deck. Over two months of having his coffee at the kitchen table. Even the floor to ceiling window that stretches nearly the length of the room isn’t the same as sitting outside. The sounds, the smells, even the colors are muted through the glass.

He watches the sparrows and the chickadees at the feeders, letting himself enjoy the hustle and bustle as they compete for their turns, some flitting from feeder to tree branch, some resting on the ground underneath, a few even venturing to peck at the seed and breadcrumbs he’s scattered on the wide rail of the deck. He’s lost in the whirling kaleidoscope of their sober blacks and greys when, from the corner of his eye, he is distracted by a flash of blue.

_Odd_, he thinks, turning to look. _Maybe a blue jay? I haven’t seen one in awhile, but they are surely around. And there haven’t been bluebirds in Kansas for years. Which is too bad…_

But there’s nothing there. All he sees is the bare branches of the maple, elm, and ash trees; the green of the towering white pines; the brown leaves littering the forest floor; and the birds dancing at his feeders and among the trees.

Odd, he thinks again. Glancing at his watch, he stands. Time to make his lunch--he baked bread last night, so his sandwich will be excellent--and leave for work.

It’s another day.

Dean pulls up to the garage about an hour later. There is a faint hum in the air; someone must be working on something nearby. Dean looks at the closest buildings--two tall rowhouses, a bakery, and a bookshop--but it’s impossible to tell which issues the hum. He shudders faintly and ducks through the side door into the garage.

Crowley’s Car Clinic. It’s mostly a good job; Dean’s worked here since high school. He likes to work with his hands, he understands engines, and this place is _clean_. By its very nature there are no contaminations here. He likes that. He doesn’t much like Crowley, but he’s never actually here in person, so it works out okay.

Dean is alone this morning. Ketch took two weeks off, something about his family in England, and Alfie, still in high school, only works weekends. Dean doesn’t mind; in fact, he’s glad for the solitude. When the others are here they nearly always insist on working with at least one of the bay doors open. When they’re gone, Dean can keep the outside world outside.

In the box by the door there is a list of things he’s supposed to do today, hand delivered by one of Crowley’s many messenger kids in the early hours of the morning. Dean shakes his head. He’s never been able to figure out what possesses these kids to get up before dawn to run messages for Crowley before they go to school. It’s not like he pays them much. Do they really do it just to be in the presence of the mighty Crowley? Dean actually laughs at that. His boss has a big head. He probably calls himself “The Mighty Crowley” while looking in the mirror.

He sits at the desk in his small office to go over the list. A Camaro with a broken headlight (_honestly, can’t people do anything on their own anymore?_), an old Chevy truck that’s leaking oil, and a Volkswagen Jetta that needs a new serpentine belt. The headlight will only take a minute--the paperwork will take longer--but the rest should keep him busy for much of the day. Nothing very challenging, although finding the oil leak may be tricky. 

Dean opens the center drawer of his desk and pulls out a heavy black pen and his time card, carefully recording the time he arrived at the garage. Crowley is a stickler for detail. He replaces the pen and card in the drawer and stands, deciding where to begin. He decides to start with the headlight. It’s the easiest, but getting it done means he can almost immediately cross one of the jobs off his list. That’s always a good feeling. He glances at the list again; they have the bulb in their inventory. Dean smiles, relieved that he doesn’t have to go elsewhere to find the part he needs. He exits his office and crosses the garage to the room he jokingly calls their warehouse. It’s about the size of his living room at home and completely crammed full of spare parts, but meticulously organized. Dean did all the organizing and labeling, and he makes sure the rest of the staff follows his lead. This may be Crowley’s garage, but everyone knows Dean’s been running the place for years.

Dean finds the bulb easily, turns out the light, and closes the door behind him, his eyes roving the bay to seek out the Camaro. It’s a dusty red, looks like about an ‘83 if Dean’s guess is right. It usually is. Dean likes it, it’s got character. The driver’s side door is a deep purple; replaced but never repainted. He runs his hand over the hood. Part of him itches to restore her, to bring her to her former glory, and he knows he could. But another part sees the beauty in this patchwork, scratched up car, and knows something would be lost if he were to paint her and shine her up like new. “You have stories to tell, old girl,” he says, admiration in his voice.

He finds the tools he needs and is just about to remove the broken bulb when his peace is shattered, first by a high-pitched whine, getting higher and higher, and then by a boom that nearly knocks Dean off his feet.

Dean instinctively looks at the wardings carved into the large bay doors and above the small side door he used to enter. “I’m safe,” he says to the empty air, his voice shaky. “I’m safe. Magic can’t get in here.”

_“I told you Dean, no magic in this house! Not ever again!”_

_“But Daddy! Mommy made this car! It’s mine! It’s mine and it’s my favorite and you can’t have it!”_

_Daddy lunged at Dean and tried to grab the car away but Dean was fast, much faster than Daddy. Dean clutched his car to his chest and ran, ran and hid in his secret spot, the secret hiding place Mommy made in Dean’s bedroom wall. The door didn’t look like a door, it was so secret and clever, and Dean was the only one smart enough to be able to find it. He pulled the door closed behind him and he was so quiet, and Daddy couldn’t find him. Daddy called and yelled and he was so so mad, but he couldn’t find Dean. He finally went away._

_And then Dean cried. Why did Daddy want to take Dean’s car? He kept taking away all the things Mommy made, the special magic things. Mommy made so many special magic things, better than anyone else. But first Mommy went away, and now Daddy was taking away Mommy’s things. Daddy was so sad, cried and cried, but then he got so mad. He yelled about healers and wizards and magic._

_If Dean can’t have Mommy, he at least wants Mommy’s car._


	2. Chapter 2

Dean fights to get his galloping heart under control. He knows it’s just a working gone wrong, knows it’s happened before and will happen again. Still, his heart pounds and his teeth clench and his skin prickles. It’s going to be difficult to get anything done today.

But Dean has his ways. When he’s calm enough to walk he goes to his office and picks up the small framed photograph from the corner of his desk. “Hi, Mom,” he says to the pretty blonde woman smiling back at him. He lightly touches her cheek with the tip of his pointer finger, then places the frame back where it belongs. “I’m going to listen to some of your records today. I hope you don’t mind.”

He keeps most of her old records at home, but he rotates a few to the garage every few weeks. The record player sits on an isolated shelf, just outside Dean’s office and far enough from the cars in the bay—and errant mechanics—that it’s not in danger of being damaged. He spent hours one Saturday--off the clock, he was careful to tell his boss--wiring it to speakers throughout the bay. There’s even a speaker in his office, although that one can be turned off if he’s on the phone. There’s a more modern stereo wired to the speakers too, and the other guys in the shop use that on occasion, but Dean prefers the classics. There’s something soothing in the sound of a needle shushing over vinyl. Dean flips through the albums. He stops when he sees the familiar foursome, smiles a sad smile. _Perfect_, he thinks. He carefully places the record on the turntable, flips the switch, gently sets the needle into the groove, and waits.

_“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better…”_

Dean closes his eyes and lets the music surround him. He sings along, his voice mellow in the coolness of the garage. He doesn’t lose his anxiety, not exactly, but he lets the rhythm of his work and the cadence of the music wrap around him like a warm blanket.

After the quick headlight change, and the paperwork that goes along with it, he checks the inventory for the serpentine belt he needs. His mouth goes dry when he sees they don’t have it in stock. He tries to swallow, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

He double checks.

Of course it’s not there. It’s not as if things just appear in here.

Except Crowley. But Dean doesn’t want to think about that, especially right now.

Maybe the mess outside won’t take long to clean up. He can do the other job first, then eat lunch, then call Bobby over at Singer’s Auto Supply to see if he’s got the part Dean needs. Maybe, if Dean’s lucky, Bobby will even be able to spare someone to deliver the belt, and Dean won’t have to go out at all. It doesn’t seem to be Dean’s lucky day, but things change.

So he turns his attention to the truck. A ‘52 Chevy, all curves and chrome, a beautiful shiny green. An oil leak is a good thing to focus on; not exactly difficult, but sometimes tricky, so requiring all of his concentration. He keeps singing, attending to his work with care, flipping the records and switching to a new one when he hears the telltale hiss in the speakers. After _Hey Jude_ he switches to _The White Album_; along with “Hey Jude,” “Blackbird” is his favorite Beatles song.

Soon he is so swathed in music and metal that he’s all but forgotten whatever it was that happened outside the garage. Until, that is, he finishes with the truck and the record hisses to a stop at nearly the same time. The bay goes nearly silent, and in the sudden quiet he can hear the low thrumming from the other side of the large garage door.

_The bakery_, Dean thinks. It’s directly across from the garage; if the doors were open he could look out and see right through its glass storefront. A wave of nausea crests in his stomach, and he has to close his eyes and tell himself over and over that there is nothing at all to worry about. He nearly tugs at his hair but just in time remembers he’s been working on an oil leak and stops before he gets a head full of oil. Instead he wraps a rag around his hand, tighter and tighter, then unwinds it and winds it around the other hand, repeating this over and over until his mind is clear.

Focusing on breathing and nothing else, he puts _Hey Jude_ on again and turns to the task of cleaning up his tools and taking care of the oil he’d drained from the truck. After that comes paperwork, and when he’s done with that his stomach has calmed enough that he thinks it’s safe to eat. He was right about the sandwich, his bread is excellent. He should invite Sam and Eileen out for dinner sometime soon. Sam is always so shocked that Dean can cook, it’s worth enduring his lectures (“You really should move closer to town, Dean, it takes forever to get out here to visit.” “You’re such a good guy, Dean. You deserve to have friends. You just have to get out and meet people. It’s not that hard.”) to see his face when he tastes Dean’s food. 

He’s so busy thinking about Sammy and Eileen he barely notices when his lunch is gone. The sinking feeling in his stomach comes back as he puts his lunchbox away and dial’s Singer’s Auto Supply.

“Singer’s Auto Supply, this is Bobby. How can I help you?” The voice on the phone is gruff, but Dean knows better. Outside the garage, Bobby is the closest thing Dean has to a friend in town.

“Hey Bobby, it’s Dean.”

“Dean! Haven’t heard from you in weeks! Started thinking maybe you decided to just hide out in that house of yours.”

“Sometimes I’d like to, you know me. But no, I’ve been here. We’ve just had a good run, had all the parts we needed.”

There’s a pause, then Bobby says, “You can call when you don’t need parts, you know. Hell, you can even come visit. We have more in common than just business transactions, you and me.”

It’s Dean’s turn to be silent. He knows.

Bobby had been friends with Dean’s parents, back when his mom had been alive. Bobby had no gift for magic--how could he, owning an auto supply?--but he’d always had a fascination. Mary made small things for him: toy cars that moved on their own, toy soldiers that marched in formation, a tiny glass parrot in a cage that squawked and said, “Pipe down, ya ijit!” He kept that one on his desk. But when Mary died, John didn’t just get rid of her things. He got rid of her friends, too.

Finally he says, “Uh, yeah Bobby. But…”

Bobby laughs. “But today you need something. Hit me.”

“I’ve got an ‘09 Jetta here with a busted serpentine belt. I thought we still had one, but Ketch or Alfie must have used it without letting me know. Do you have any in stock?”

Dean can hear the buttons clacking on Bobby’s keyboard. “Yep, got three. You need it today? It’d be great to see you.”

“Well…” Dean draws out the word, trying to find the best way to explain why he doesn’t want to go out. But Bobby knows him, and he’s never laughed before, so Dean just says, “Something happened at the bakery this morning. Magic gone wrong. And they haven’t fixed it yet.” The knot in his stomach is back. 

“And you don’t want to go out.”

“I really don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, but all my drivers are out on deliveries. I’m alone in the shop, I even sent Jack out on his horse, since he can’t drive.”

Dean shudders involuntarily. He doesn’t spend much time with people, but he actively avoids the ones who can’t drive. 

Bobby breaks the silence. “You got anything else you can do? Someone should be back in half an hour or so. Forty-five minutes, tops.”

Dean shakes his head, then remembers Bobby can’t see him. “No, I’m all caught up, all but the Jetta. I guess…” He steels himself, even though his palms are sweaty. “I guess I’ll head over. Be there in five.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean eases his way through the door and onto the street. It’s not quite so bad as he’d imagined; there’s no crowd of onlookers, no emergency crew. The low thrumming hasn’t stopped though; he feels it deep in his chest and it makes him instantly queasy. And there is one person standing outside the bakery. A small redhead, cute in a feisty sort of way. She’s glaring at the building as though she could solve the problem if she stares at it with enough force. Dean looks at her more closely, takes in her posture, combined with the horse tied to the hitching post nearby, and raises his estimation of her. She probably _could _fix the problem by staring at it. 

_Away away away_, Dean thinks. _Now now now. _He has Metallica in the car; the music will drown out the awful noise and the car will get him out of here.

But when he steps toward the car she hears him and turns, and either she doesn’t notice him cringing away or she doesn’t care, because before he can get into the car and away she’s bounding across the street and straight for him.

“Sorry about all the crazy,” she says, a lopsided smile on her face. “I was trying something new, and apparently I didn’t have the ingredients quite right. I think maybe the cake in the oven didn’t quite like the cookies I was mixing up, or both of them didn’t like the new charms I hung last night. Or it may have even been something in the wood I was burning. I thought it was all oak--oak is best for a bakery of course, it’s solid and doesn’t cause any problems with any other spells that may be hanging around--but some trickster may have slipped in a bit of apple. The tiniest bit of applewood in a baker’s oven can cause all kinds of shenanigans. When I was an apprentice there was this girl who thought it would be funny to--” But she apparently finds the story too hilarious to tell, because she’s suddenly overcome with a fit of giggles. “Ah well,” she finishes, when she’s gotten herself under some semblance of control. “I think maybe you had to be there.”

Dean is utterly bewildered. He’s never met a witch like her before. There’s no doubt she’s a witch, and powerful, too; even he can feel the power coming off her in waves. But she’s so completely _normal_. 

Finally she notices that Dean is just standing there, staring, and she says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Charlie, the new baker. Moved in last week, was hoping to open up in a few days. Not sure that’s going to happen now, though. I can’t even go inside. Aside from the cake I can’t get out of the oven, the air is thick around my workstation, almost like oatmeal. Nearly impossible to move through. I’ve got some people--special magic clean-up crew--coming to help me get back inside soon. I hope.”

His mouth is so dry that his first attempt at speaking comes out as a rasp. He coughs and tries again. “Dean,” he says. “Winchester. I’m, uh, I work at the garage.”

Her forehead crinkles; he can almost see her thinking. If not for the thrumming coming from behind her, and the power escaping from her without her even realizing it, he might even find her...cute. Endearing, even. _This is the most confusing conversation I’ve had in ages_, Dean thinks.

“Cars are a complete mystery to me,” Charlie says wistfully. She gestures at the horse. “You know.”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

“I used to be able to ride in cars, back when I was a kid. But when I was eleven my power manifested, and bam, no more iron for Charlie. I have a few friends--witches--back home who can handle it, but my power is just too strong. I get sick if I get too close to iron, let alone if I touch it. And my magic, it does strange things around iron. Most of the time it doesn’t work at all, and that’s actually the best case scenario. Other times…” She looks into the distance, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Other times, things just go wrong. And not in a funny, ‘oh look, I just gave my bestie bunny ears’ kind of way. In ways you can’t even imagine.”

Dean shivers and hugs his arms across his chest.

Then he looks up, right into Charlie’s unblinking eyes.

“Charlie. Iron makes your magic go wrong. Could someone...do you think someone could have put iron in your bakery?”

“No! That’s impo…” she trails off. “A lot of iron I’d have noticed right away. But something small, or iron filings maybe…” Her eyes widen. “Dean Winchester, you’re a genius.” She beams at him, and before he can do anything to stop her she wraps her arms around his neck for a joy-filled hug, squeals in delight, then kisses him on the cheek.

And then she’s gone, bouncing across the street and onto her horse. “I can’t take care of it, of course,” she shouts. “But I’ve got a connection here in town who can get close enough, no problem! See you later, Dean! Let’s go, Frodo!” This last seems to have been aimed at her horse, who whinnies and tosses his mane before they gallop off down the street.

Shaking his head, trying to wrap his head around the encounter, Dean only gets halfway to his car before Charlie is back. “Cake or pie?” she asks, slightly out of breath, from Frodo’s back.

“Huh?”

She laughs, a merry sort of sound, like bells ringing. “Do you prefer cake or pie?”

For the first time that day, Dean actually grins. “Pie. Always pie.”

Charlie grins back. “Alrighty then. As soon as my bakery is back in order, I’m baking you a pie. Maybe even two pies.”

“Excellent.”

Dean actually waves goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean makes it home before sunset. The warmth of the day has waned, but it’s still warmer than the early morning, so he takes a beer onto the deck, sighing with relief as he sinks onto an adirondack chair. 

The trip out to Singer’s Auto Supply hadn’t been bad at all, although Bobby had been all over concerned when he’d arrived. Dean had to explain that he hadn’t gotten into any trouble, that he’d just been delayed by conversation with the new baker.

Bobby had raised an eyebrow. “You? Talking with the _baker_? I’ve heard she’s pretty powerful. You alright, kid?”

Dean somehow managed to keep from rolling his eyes. He was creeping up on 35. Why did Bobby insist on calling him kid? “I’m fine. She’s so… I don’t know how to explain it, Bobby, but she doesn’t talk like a witch. I could feel her power, but I wasn’t sick or scared at all. A bit overwhelmed, but it was more like talking to you or Sam. Or maybe you and Sam, and even Eileen, all at once.” At Bobby’s confused look, Dean clarified, “She chattered.”

Bobby chuckled.

After Dean brought the part back to the shop (no sign of Frodo or Charlie, and the bakery still gave Dean a sick feeling) he made quick work of the Jetta. He called Crowley to see if there was anything else coming in, and was told to close up early and go home. Dean was happy to comply. Happier still that it was Friday. He had to work Saturdays, but only in the morning; he’d do oil changes and check tire pressure, that sort of thing. He’d have lunch with his brother and sister-in-law and then be free until Monday morning.

So now he’s home, with about an hour of sunlight left. He knows he should be making dinner, but it’s so peaceful out on his deck. The sparrows and chickadees are back, and a few finches have joined them. A pair of cardinals, the male bright red and the female a less flashy brown, lands on a tree branch a few yards from where he’s sitting. “You mate for life, don’t you,” he says softly, and he feels an ache somewhere in his chest. He smiles at the birds, a sad smile. “It’s quiet here, and these are good trees for nesting. I fill the feeders at least once a day. Feel free to stick around.” The male peeps at him and they both fly off, although Dean sees them land again a few trees away. He looks at the other gathered birds and shrugs. “Maybe they will stick around.”

He used to feel funny about these conversations. Now he just talks. The birds, they’re good listeners. And they don’t judge. They never laugh when he says he stays away from all magic. They don’t even laugh when he admits he’s become, over the years, a little bit afraid of it.

He knows, in his head, that he’s more than a little bit afraid. But he doesn’t say that bit out loud.

“It was an interesting day,” he tells the birds, smiling. “I think I may have made a friend. The most unlikely friend a guy like me could ever meet.” His smile fades. “Of course, I haven’t told her yet that I don’t like to be around magic. She’ll probably think I’m crazy like all the rest. ‘How can you survive without _magic_?’ How do you cook, or clean, or do _anything_?!’” The bitterness in his voice stings.

A sparrow hops along the deck’s rail, pecking at the seed he’d scattered there before sitting down. “You’re right,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. I have all of you. You’re my friends, right?”

And again, from the corner of his eye he catches a flash of blue. When he turns his head this time, though, the flash resolves itself into a bird. Not far off in a tree, either, but sitting on the rail, not far from where the sparrow had been moments before.

But this is no sparrow.

It’s no little bluebird, either. 

Dean’s mouth falls open. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, and his hand reaches out to stroke the bird’s feathers before he realizes what he’s doing and jerks it back. Curiously, the bird doesn’t react at all, just sits there, watching.

“But you don’t-- I mean, you aren’t from around here. I’ve seen blue jays of course, and many crows, but…”

The bird cocks its head at him, gazing back intently.

Dean has never seen a Steller’s Jay in person, only in books. They usually live on the west coast or in the southwest--_not_ in Kansas. And he hadn’t just been making conversation when he’d said the bird is gorgeous. About the size of a small crow, it has bright blue wings and tail, lightly striped with black, a slightly dustier blue back and shoulders, and a black head and beak. The feathers on top of its head are long and slightly ruffled, somehow pointing both straight up and in all directions. And the eyes. He’d never been this close to a crow, but he’d had similar feelings from them: these birds look at you like they’re listening.

“I’m Dean,” he says. He has no idea why he feels the need to introduce himself. When he talks to the birds he just...talks. It’s not a real conversation, it’s just sounds.

It’s been a strange day.

And so Dean is barely surprised when, instead of flying away, the jay hops closer, _hop hop hop_, until it is directly in front of Dean, and then, with no hesitation, gives one flap of its blue wings and alights on the arm of Dean’s chair. It gives a soft _caw_ and again cocks its head, as if saying, “I hope you don’t mind me standing so close, I just wanted a better look at you.” Dean can barely breathe. Is he dreaming? This isn’t the kind of thing that happens in real life. At least not to Dean. It’s the kind of thing that happens to princesses in books and movies, the ones who sing to animals and get rescued by princes.

And just like that, the bird is gone. Not disappeared, thankfully; just flown off into the branches of the pine tree that towers next to the house.

Dean stands, leans on the rail to look up into the tree. “This is a good place,” he calls, his voice low. “I know you’re far from home, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

He dreams about the jay that night.

Not at first. At first the dream is one he’s had many times. He’s a boy again, very young. Four probably, since there’s no Sam yet. They’re in a house Dean barely remembers, the house they left when he was...five? Six? That part of his life is blurry...

_He’s playing hide and seek. It’s the best game in the world when he plays with Mommy, because she doesn’t play like other people. Dean hides, and instead of creeping around the house looking for him, she sends her toys. She gives them a little tap and they spread out and look for Dean, a little toy army. There’s a shiny black car (that one’s Dean’s favorite), a little stuffed kitten, a wooden soldier, a tin elephant with wheels instead of feet. Mommy made them all. She makes the best toys. And no matter how good Dean hides they always find him. The kitten is the cleverest. It can squeeze into the tiniest of spaces. When they find Dean they race back to Mommy and all she has to do is follow them back. Then she hugs him and they both giggle and it’s just the best._

_But this time during the hugging and the giggling Dean points over her shoulder and says, “Mommy, why is there a bird in the kitchen?”_

_Mommy turns around, then looks back at Dean. “What bird?”_

_Dean is confused. Can’t Mommy see it? It’s right there. And it’s a big bird. Not big like Big Bird, that’s silly. But big like a crow. It kinda looks like a crow, ’cept it’s mostly blue. Real pretty._

_“It’s right there, Mommy,” he says, pointing at the bird. “It’s on the table.” The bird hops across the table, closer to them. Dean starts to walk closer too, he wants to see the pretty bird, but Mommy grabs his shoulder._

_“No!” Dean looks up at Mommy. He eyes are wide, looking all over the room, then at Dean, then all around the room again._

_Dean wiggles, trying to get away. “Mommy, you’re hurting me!”_

_Mommy holds him tighter. “Dean, stop. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re scaring me. Just stay back. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”_

_“He’s my friend, Mommy. He’s not going to hurt me.” Dean reaches out a hand, and the bird flies into the air and lands on his arm._

_“Oh!” says Dean. He stays very still._

_“You...you know him?” Mommy asks. Her voice sounds funny. Almost like she’s choking on something._

_“Yes. We go way back. Or forward. Something like that.” Dean is surprised. He didn’t mean to say those words. Where did they come from?_

_The bird cocks its head, then opens its mouth and says, “You can trust me, Dean. I **am**_ _your friend.”_

Dean takes his coffee out onto the deck, just after sunrise.

On the rail he finds a perfect blue and black feather.


	4. Chapter 4

There is a box in the middle of Dean’s desk when he gets to work. There’s a wide red ribbon wrapped around it, tied in a bow, and the card says:

_Dean,_

_I knew you were a genius. There were iron shavings sprinkled around my oven. Who would do such a thing?! Maybe someone doesn’t want a new baker in town. Thanks for your help. If they’d been left there much longer I could have lost the whole building._

_Stop by sometime. I’ve always got pie and conversation, and apparently I’m in need of a friend like you._

_Charlie_

_P.S. I hope you like blackberry pie. The berries are fresh, and I grew them myself._

Dean reads the last line again. Grew them herself? It’s _February_. Then he remembers: she’s a witch. She probably has charms to make plants grow indoors, and year-round.

Then he re-reads the whole thing. The very idea of voluntarily entering a bakery makes his heart pound. But Charlie, she’s so perfectly ordinary. He can’t wrap his head around the duality.

Yet somehow he finds himself actually wanting to be her friend.

Maybe they can figure something out. If, that is, she doesn’t bolt as soon as she finds out how he feels about magic.

He finds Alfie in the bay, already finishing up the first oil change of the day. “Did you find the pie?” the boy asks. “A cute redhead brought it by. Said you knew her. I didn’t know you knew anyone.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know you, don’t I? Besides, it’s not like she’s my best friend or anything. I just met her yesterday. She’s the new baker, in the shop across the street. I helped her out with something. The pie’s just her way of saying thanks.”

Alfie’s face lights up. He looks just like a puppy waiting for a treat. “She just moved in you say? Think she needs help with anything else? Moving? Unpacking? That’s my kind of thank you!”

“We didn’t talk about any of that. But you know, it’s a _bakery_. You could always just walk over and _buy _a slice of pie.”

“You know I can’t,” Alfie says, drooping with disappointment. “I’ve got to save every penny if I want to get my car before summer. Even if I save everything I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”

“Ah, the trouble of every teenager. Transportation. Trying to impress a girl?”

Alfie blushes. Even his ears turn red.

“Her name’s Patience,” he mumbles, looking at the floor.

“Patience,” Dean repeats. “Not sure I know her. But like you so kindly mentioned, I don’t get out much.”

“I’m sor--” Alfie starts, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re right, I keep myself to myself. But I do alright. What you need to do, kid, is have some patience.”

Alfie shoots him a quizzical look. Dean laughs.

“Small p. Patience with a small p. You’ll get a car, but you don’t have to work yourself to death in the process. And don’t stop having fun just to save every penny. It’s okay to splurge once in awhile. And here’s my best advice: ask Patience out before you get a car. If she likes you, she’ll say yes even if she has to walk.”

“You think so?”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, I do. But right now we’ve got work to do. I see you’ve got the first oil change of the day done...how many more are lined up so far?”

Alfie’s a good kid, he switches from lovesick to ready to work just like that. “Mr. Crowley’s schedule has three on it, including the one I already finished, and we’ve had two walk-ins. Nothing else so far, other than the pie.” Dean chuckles.

They work well together; the bay doors are open, letting in the crisp February air, but it’s nearly spring and it’s getting warmer every day so neither of them mind much. Their coveralls and general activity keep them plenty warm. Since Alfie is there they alternate between Led Zeppelin and some earsplitting pop nightmare Dean’s never even heard of but Alfie seems to love. 

Dean is working on his third--and hopefully last--oil change of the morning when he hears a familiar voice from the open doorway.

“Knock, knock!”

He looks up, trying to conceal the surprise he’s feeling. “Charlie? Uh, hi. Um, how can you…” He’s clearly flustered, unsure how to say what he’s thinking, so he just flaps a hand in a general way, indicating the whole of the shop.

But she understands. “I’m okay here, as long as I don’t touch anything. Or try to do magic. Or, you know, stay too long.” Her whole face lights up when she smiles.

“Oh. Uh, okay. Come on in, then.” Dean can’t help but smile back at her, although not quite so brightly.

Her smile gets even wider--how is that even possible?--and she takes a few steps over the threshold into the garage. She makes a face. “Ugh. I can actually _taste_ the iron in this place. How can you stand it?” She looks at their blank faces and realizes her mistake. “Of course,” she says with slightly embarrassed laugh. “Neither of you has any magic. If you did…” She trails off, not wanting to be rude.

“We wouldn’t be working here,” Alfie finishes for her. “It’s okay, we don’t mind being the way we are.”

Charlie relaxes. “I can’t imagine life without magic. But it’s not like you have to live _completely_ without magic, you just don’t have it inside you.”

Dean stiffens. _Here it comes_, he thinks. The room is very still for a moment, quiet but for the music. Then Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, I live completely without magic.”

Charlie looks baffled. “You mean _on purpose_?”

“Yeah, actually. It’s...well, it’s kind of a long story. But some stuff happened when I was a kid, and my dad went off magic. As in, all the way off. Moved my brother and me out of town, and together we learned how to live ‘all tech, no magic.’ We didn’t even go to school, because--”

“Because there are Focus and No Germs charms in every classroom, at the very least, and No Cheating charms once you get to higher grades. Not to mention every kid is required to take at least intro level Magical History and Identifying Charms classes. Yeah, there wouldn’t be any way around that.” She looks thoughtful. “What kind of stuff did your dad teach you? Did you read a lot of books? ’Cause I gotta say, that’s the dream.”

Dean just stares at her. She’s looking at him, all matter-of-fact, as though it’s an everyday thing to meet someone who mostly hides himself away from the world and does everything “the hard way.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy,” Dean says. It comes out in a choked sort of voice. He can’t actually believe the words he’s saying.

“No.” She says it with such surety, and somehow also in a tone that conveys _why would I think that?_ “I mean, I can’t imagine living without magic, but it’s been in my blood since I was born. I knew it was there even before my powers manifested--my whole family is steeped in magic. My parents are both _insanely_ powerful and back home in Maine _everyone_ knows who they are. Which is exactly why I’m starting over in a small town in Kansas.” Her smile is tinged with sadness. “We all have things we want to avoid, Dean.”

Dean just looks at her. She keeps smiling back at him. Finally he says, “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.” He scrubs a hand at the back of his neck, oblivious to the grime he’s spreading. Alfie opens his mouth to say something, but Charlie kicks him. He looks at her, wide-eyed with confusion. She shrugs, mouths, “Sorry!” Dean sees the entire exchange but doesn’t really notice.

“I’ve lived here all my life. My family grew up here, both my parents came from this town. These people were there when Sam and I were born, when we were little, when...when everything happened. They know all the history, and still they...they treat me like a leper. They laugh at me when they think I’m out of earshot, tell their kids to be careful or they’ll end up like that weird guy who lives out past the edge of town. Three or four times a year I have to fix damage to my car--intentional damage. Slashed tires, a broken window, words scratched into the paint. Sometimes local high school kids come out to my house late at night and throw eggs or toilet paper.

“But you...you just accept me?”

“That’s what friends do, Dean.”

Dean has to turn away. It’s too much.

After a minute Alfie breaks the tension by chiming in, “Not everyone thinks you’re crazy, Dean. I never did. Well, not because of the magic thing, anyway. Your taste in music, on the other hand…”

Dean turns on him. “Hey! Don’t you go bad-mouthing--” he starts, but then he sees that Alfie is grinning. Charlie too.

“Sorry, kid, I’m on Dean’s side. This is pretty great,” she says. “_Zeppelin IV_, right? Is that actually vinyl? So retro.”

Dean nods, all enthusiasm now. “I have a huge collection. They were my mom’s. She..” He stops, takes a breath. “She was a hedgewitch. She died when I was five. Sam was just a baby. I don’t really remember what happened, except that she was hurt, or sick, or _something_, and my dad thought the healers should have been able to save her. And they didn’t. I mean, they tried, but she still… Well, anyway, Dad went wild. He stormed through the house, ranting and railing about healers and magic and what good was it if it couldn’t save the woman he loved? He got rid of all her charms, all her magic books, all the cool magic toys she’d made for me. Sam never even got to see them. Pretty soon he’d sold our place in town and moved us out to the house I live in now. It didn’t take long to forget all about magic, really, except as something that I read about in books. Dad saved Mom’s record collection and her fiction, and I don’t think he realized she had several shelves of fairy tales. I have a feeling he would have thrown those out too, if he’d known.”

Dean looks up to see Charlie and Alfie staring at him, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I can’t remember the last time I talked about my mom.”

“I know we just met,” Charlie says, “but I meant what I said about being friends. Is it okay if I hug you?”

Dean jumps a little in surprise, says, “Uh, okay,” then squeaks, “oh, wait! I’m all dirty!” ..but it’s too late. Charlie’s already got her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek against his chest. He feels awkward at first but then smiles and hugs her too, patting her on the back. “Thanks, Charlie,” he says, his voice hoarse.

The record player begins to shush, the needle having reached the end of the album. Alfie begins to clean up; apparently all the emotions are a bit too much for him. And Charlie suddenly puts a hand to her abdomen, folding over slightly.

“Oh!” It’s only a small gasp, but Dean hears true discomfort. “I think it’s time for me to go. All this iron, I think it’s become a bit much.” She smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for who you are, Charlie,” Dean says, surprising himself. “Besides, we’re just cleaning up and heading home. We’re only open until noon on Saturdays.”

Charlie brightens at this. “Great! Come by for lunch then! I have more pie…” She practically sings the word “pie,” and Dean chuckles.

“I wish I could,” --he’s surprised to find this is true-- “but I have lunch with my brother and his wife on Saturdays.” He’s struck with a sudden idea. “Come with me! Sam would be thrilled if I brought someone!”

He sees the panic on Charlie’s face and laughs outright. “I don’t mean a date, Charlie. I just mean a friend. Sam’s always telling me to stop talking to birds and talk to people instead. I think he’s given up hope, honestly. It would be nice to show him that I’m not a lost cause.”

“In that case,” she says, putting out her hand to shake, “I accept. No dates, though. Not ever.” She leans over their clasped hands and winks conspiratorially. “I’m gay,” she whispers.

Dean laughs again. He’s laughing a lot today. “Is it a secret?” he whispers back.

“No,” she says, laughing with him. “Not really.”

“Good,” Dean says. “Actually, I’m gay too. And it’s not exactly a secret, I’ve just never had anyone to tell. Except Sam.” _I certainly couldn’t tell Dad_, he thinks to himself.

Charlie looks him up and down, or rather, looks him up and part of the way down before she clutches at her stomach as another wave of nausea hits. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she says. “I need fresh air. But huh. I never would have guessed you’re gay. Go figure. But anyway, that settles it. Everyone needs a gay best friend, right? I can be yours and you can be mine!”


	5. Chapter 5

They ride to Sam’s house together.

Ride, as in horses.

Dean wasn’t prepared for that, but he should have been. Of course she can’t go in his car, and him driving at a steady 4 miles per hour so the horse could follow behind is ridiculous. At first he thinks he is going to have to ride behind her on Frodo but no, Bilbo lives in the stable out back. Of course.

It’s been years since he’s been on a horse, but it’s not that complicated. They aren’t exactly galloping down the streets, weaving amongst the cars. There’s the pie to protect, after all. Lemon meringue, not blackberry; Eileen likes lemon, and Dean’s taking the blackberry home for himself, at Charlie’s insistence. It was a gift, she’d said. You’re allowed to be selfish with gifts.

Sam practically jumps on him as soon as he walks through the front door. “Dean! Did I just see you ride up to my house on a horse? And with a girl? Who is she? Do you have a girlfriend now? I thought you were gay? What is going on here?”

“Woah, hold up! Can I at least get my jacket off before you attack me?” Dean is hanging up his jacket in the front closet and Eileen is peeking through the kitchen doorway when Charlie walks in the front door, white bakery box in hand.

“Hi!” she says, cheerful as ever. Not even gigantic Sam intimidates her.

“Charlie, this is my baby brother, Sam, and his wife, Eileen,” Dean says, automatically signing along with his speech now that Eileen is in the room. Sam pulls a face at Dean’s ‘baby brother’ comment, and Dean grins. “Sam, Eileen, this is Charlie. She’s opening a bakery across from Crowley’s. And she’s my _friend_. _Not_ girlfriend. Still gay, okay? Actually, she’s gay too. She’s gay, I’m gay, everybody’s gay.”

“I’m not gay,” Sam and Eileen say together.

Everyone bursts out laughing.

“Thanks for clearing that up,” Dean says drily.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call and tell them I was coming!” Charlie hisses, elbowing Dean in the side while somehow still managing to gracefully pass the pie to Eileen.

Dean shrugs. “Sam deserves a little chaos in his life.”

“But I don’t think _Eileen_ does!”

“That woman is made of steel. Don’t let her sweet smile and calm demeanor fool you. Trust me, she can handle a little chaos. Hell, she can take Sammy any day of the week.”

“Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam calls from the kitchen, where Dean can hear him adding another place setting to the table.

“Sure thing, Sammy,” Dean calls back.

Sam groans loudly. Dean chuckles.

Charlie gazes up at him, a far-off look in her eyes; after a moment she shakes her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re different here, did you know that? You’re light, easy, and.. well, not nervous at all. I just don’t get you.”

Dean shrugs, again. “This place is safe. It’s been a safe place ever since Sam moved in. Sam and Eileen, they’re family. _You’re_ the confusing one. You crackle with power but you act like a regular person. I’m half expecting lightning to spark from your fingertips and half expecting you to ask if I know a good place around here to find wild strawberries for tarts and pies in the summer. Which actually I do, because I like to bake too. Just, you know, the regular way. No magic.”

For well over a minute they just stare at each other, and Dean wonders if maybe he said too much. He’s just trying to figure out if and how he can take it all back when Charlie says, “Don’t ever stop surprising me, Dean Winchester.” She kisses his cheek, links her arm through his, and together they walk towards the kitchen.

“Do you always kiss people you’ve only just met?” he asks. “That’s twice now.”

“Nope. You’re special.” She draws out the word ‘special’ to make her meaning clear.

“You know, Charlie, suddenly I’m realizing you’re the little sister I never wanted.”

She giggles. “Honey, you ain’t seen _nothin’_ yet.”

Lunch is a warm, friendly affair. Mostly. Charlie fits into their little family like she’s been there all along. Dean had been a bit worried about Charlie and Eileen being able to communicate, but he needn’t have bothered. Charlie knows a little sign language, and what she lacks Eileen is able to make up by reading Charlie’s lips. “She’s got the clearest enunciation I’ve ever seen,” Eileen signs. “It’s never been so easy!”

Charlie grins. “It’s all the spellwork. You have to speak properly and perfectly. If you don’t… well, let’s just say it gets messy. And the stronger the magic the bigger the mess. You can guess how big my messes were. I learned early that speaking clearly was best.” She looks embarrassed, talking about her power like that, like she’s bragging.

Dean’s heart pounds in his chest. He counts the beats--_ONE two THREE four FIVE six SEVEN eight_\--and then manages to pull himself back under control. Under the table, Charlie finds his hand with hers and squeezes. “Sorry,” she says softly. “I know you don’t like to talk about magic.”

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“It’s okay,” Dean says, once he’s calm enough to answer.

“No,” says Charlie. “I just didn’t think. I’ll be more careful. Or, I’ll try. I’m pretty good at putting my foot in my mouth. I’ve had a lot of practice. You’d think I was the one with a little brother.” She looks pointedly from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean, giggling at the ‘you have no idea what I’ve had to put up with’ looks they’re both giving her.

Dean decides to change the subject.

“Eileen, you won’t believe what I saw in my backyard yesterday.”

Sam groans. “Oh no, not the birds.”

“Birds?” Charlie asks. Eileen looks at Dean with interest.

Sam knows he’s lost.

“You know Dean lives out past the edge of town?” Eileen asks.

Charlie nods.

“His land is mostly woods, and he likes to watch the birds. He feeds them. He knows a lot about them,” Eileen explains.

“He spends more time with them than he does with us,” Sam grumbles.

“Hush,” Eileen tells her husband, and Dean hears a muffled _thump_ from under the table. Sam jumps.

Dean looks at Charlie and mouths, “I told you she’s tough.”

Charlie stifles a giggle.

“_Anyway_,” he says, trying to take control of the conversation, “there was a steller’s jay on my deck last night!”

Eileen’s eyes widen.

Charlie says, “A what?”

“A steller’s jay. It’s a lot like a blue jay, only bigger. Quite a lot bigger; this one’s over a foot long, and I’d guess its wingspan is close to eighteen inches. It’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Only…” Dean hesitates, then goes on. “This bird isn’t supposed to be here. It’s from places like Arizona and New Mexico, along the west coast, and sometimes--although not very often--in the pine forests in the Rocky Mountains. But _Kansas_? Never. It doesn’t make any sense.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans.

“I found this on the rail of my deck this morning. Almost as if it had been left there for me.” He opens his hand to show them the blue feather, lightly striped with black bands.

They all lean in to get a closer look. “It’s lovely.” Charlie says. “May I?” When Dean nods, she tentatively takes the feather.

The change is instantaneous. She drops the feather before she’s even really gotten ahold of it. Her eyes grow wide and wider still, almost impossibly, monstrously wide. She pushes herself away from the table; her chair clatters to the floor while she crouches next to it, gasping for breath.

“Charlie!” Dean jumps to his feet and then stands there, momentarily frozen, torn between going to help her and staying away from something obviously magical in nature. In the end--it feels like hours but only takes two or three seconds to decide--he pushes past his fear and goes to his friend.

“Charlie!” he says again. “What can I do?” He has an arm around her, just sitting. Her breathing calms.

“Dean,” she manages to say, her voice raspy. “That feather--”

But whatever she meant to say never comes; it’s as though her voice is just snapped off. She clutches at her throat, and makes wild, howling gestures, but no sounds escape her lips.

After a few minutes she calms down, and says, “I’m fine,” to all the faces staring at her with concern.

Everyone speaks at once; even Eileen signs emphatically at Charlie to explain herself.

Charlie sighs.

“I can’t explain. Literally. And If I try, or even think about trying, I’ll lose my voice again. Clever. It’s not even magic, really. Well, it is, but it’s more like...defense. Or, no; it’s like a really good security system. So right now I’m focusing on thinking about how to bake the perfect chocolate chip cookies and how much I hate falling onto the floor while I explain to you all that I can’t explain anything.” She shrugs. “Sorry.”

“But…” Dean says. “Charlie, it’s just a feather.” As if to demonstrate its ordinariness, he picks it up from where it had landed on the table. “See? It’s been in my pocket all day.”

Charlie opens her mouth as though she wants to say something but closes it with an audible clack. She smiles a half-hearted smile, then says, “If you say so.”

The jay invades Dean’s dreams again that night.

_It’s two days after Dean’s twelfth birthday. His Dad’s idea of a celebration had been to start drinking with lunch instead of dinner. Dean hadn’t even bothered to try to get him to his bedroom, he just left him on the couch where he passed out._

_He hasn’t given Dean a birthday present since he was eight._

_He’d asked for a pie once, when he turned ten. “I know where to find wild blackberries,” he’d said, daring to hope._

_“You’re not a kid anymore. You’re turning eleven. You don’t need a pie.”_

_“Ten,” Dean had told the empty room, all the hope gone out of his voice, after his dad had gone. “I’m turning ten.”_

_But Dean has a place, a place deep in the woods where no one else goes. He’s careful to take different ways there each time so he never makes a path. It’s not anything special, really, but it feels like it, like he is safe there. His dad would hate it, because he knows it was used for magic once, long ago. The stones in the clearing were once arranged in a perfect circle, though that was obviously in a very distant past, for they are all broken and scattered now. Still, there is a sacred feeling every time he steps from the trees into the meadow, as if the ground itself might speak to him one day._

_Not today, though. Today, perched on the largest of the stones, there is a bird._

_Dean is sure he’s seen this bird before. Or maybe that he will see this bird again. Something in his brain shifts._

_“Hello,” he says, scrambling up the rock to sit beside the bird._

_“Hello, Dean,” says the bird. His voice is like gravel, somehow rough and soothing all at once._

_“Did I know you could talk?”_

_“You did. Or you will. Dreams are strange. Time is fluid here.” The bird cocks his head. “Did you like my feather? It’s the only gift I can give you, for now.”_

_“The feather? I--” And then Dean remembers. “Yes, it’s beautiful. Did it hurt, to pull it out?”_

_“Oh, no. I have many, and I lose them all the time. I can give you others, from time to time.”_

_Dean isn’t sure what to say to this beautiful being. He ducks his head._

_“Do you talk to many people? I talk to birds all the time, but you’re the first one that’s ever talked back.”_

_The bird makes a sound, half trill, half croak. After a moment Dean realizes it’s a bird laugh. “No no no,” says the bird. “It’s not a normal thing, talking. Bird mouths aren’t really made for it. I’m not even talking to you now, I’m afraid. This **is** a dream, you know.”_

_Dean struggles to understand._

_The bird hops closer and runs his beak through Dean’s sun-streaked brown hair, preening him. “Someday you’ll get it. It’s alright if it takes some time.”_

When Dean wakes up, he can still feel the soft touch of the jay’s beak running through his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s Sunday, Dean’s day off. Since it’s been so warm he’d hoped to get up and take his coffee onto the deck, but the weather disappoints; there’s a steady, cold rain pelting at his windows. He sits at his kitchen window, gazing through the blurry glass, but doesn’t catch even a glimpse of blue.

“I don’t know what I’m expecting,” he says to the empty kitchen. “It’s not like he’s going to suddenly start telling me his life story. Or even preening my hair with his beak.” He runs a hand through his hair, remembering. “He. His. Its. Hell, what am I doing? It’s a _bird_, not a… not a...”

He can’t do this. He can’t sit here all morning thinking about a bird. He’s crazy enough already, he doesn’t need to pile on.

But what to do on a rainy day? The house is clean. His car doesn’t need any work (and he’s not going to wash it in the rain). He did laundry three days ago, and since he’s the only one here he doesn’t need to do it again so soon. He can bake bread again, but that won’t fill the whole day. He hates when it rains on Sunday. He usually spends all day Sunday outdoors, even when it’s cold. Hiking keeps him warm enough. Splitting wood is almost too warm.

_Splitting wood,_ he thinks_. A fire in the fireplace. And a book._ Something cozy and spooky, fitting for a dreary day. He mulls it over while he builds the fire, mentally searching through his bookshelves even as he piles the wood, shaves a bit of kindling, and lights a match. By the time the fire’s sparked he’s landed on _The Shining_. Not exactly cozy, but definitely spooky. Perfect for the mood of the day. Stephen King sure knew what he was doing when he put pen to paper.

Settling onto the sofa with a worn quilt, a cup of coffee, and a slice of Charlie’s blackberry pie--his second of the day--he opens up the worn paperback. He’s read it five or six times before, almost always on days like this, rainy days with little else to do. He smiles to himself, remembering the first time. He’d found it in a box of his mom’s old books when he was seven, and he finally read it when he was twelve. He didn’t live in a hotel, but there had been a snowstorm at the time.

He hadn’t slept for a week.

But of course he read it again. It’s his mom’s book. He reads his mom’s books over and over, imagines her hands turning the pages, her eyes taking in every word. He wonders if _The Shining_ scared her as much as it always scares him. In his memory she’s fearless, but he sees her through the imperfect memory of childhood. To him, she will always be larger than life. Even in death.

He stops a moment on the very first page, running his fingers over the name written boldly in purple ink: _**Mary Winchester**_. They depress slightly into the page; his mom left her mark here.

“I miss you, Mom,” he says.

Then he turns to the start of the book and begins to read.

He reads for hours, losing track of time, forgetting lunch, forgetting everything. He gets caught up in the story of the Torrance family and the Overlook Hotel. He’s more than halfway through when he falls asleep, lulled by the sound of the rain.

_He knows right away that he’s in a dream. He’s never been anywhere like this playground, has never seen giant topiary animals. He doesn’t much like them either. But even though his body is that of an eight year old--_why am I so young?_ he wonders--he hasn’t gone back to his eight year old mind._

At least there’s no snow,_ he thinks. _If I have to be here, at least there’s no snow._ He shivers anyway._

_He’s not at all surprised when he sees the bird._

_“Why do I keep dreaming about you?” Dean asks._

_“That’s not very polite,” the bird says. He sounds amused. “Not even a hello. Just start the interrogation. You’ll be doing a lineup next.”_

_“What?”_

_The bird actually sighs at him. “Never mind. You keep dreaming about me because I want to talk to you, and I don’t have the vocal cords to do it when you’re awake. Or possibly it’s because you ate too much blackberry pie and it’s making you hallucinate me. Either way, we should take advantage of our time together, don’t you think?”_

_A butterfly with wings made out of paper--they look like the pages of a book--flits between them._

_“Okay,” Dean says. “You want to talk. So talk.”_

_“I’d rather you talk, actually,” says the bird. He cocks his head to one side, one shiny black eye sizing him up. The fluffy feathers on the top of his head look ridiculously like messy hair, and Dean wants to laugh, but the bird’s demeanor is so serious that he holds back, his eyes merry but his face sober._

_“What do you want to know? Who knows how long I’m going to sleep, might as well get to the heart of things.”_

_The bird laughs at him again. It’s a strange sound, but Dean finds himself thinking he could get used to hearing it._

_“Tell me something true.”_

_Dean is quiet, not just outwardly but in his heart as well. _I know this is a dream,_ he thinks. _I shouldn’t be thinking so logically in a dream, but here I am. I know this is a dream, and yet…

_“I’m afraid of magic,” he says. He can’t bring himself to meet the clear gaze of the bird. _

_The moment stretches between them, until finally the bird says, “I am no threat to you.”_

_“What does that even mean?” Dean practically shouts the words. He rakes his fingers through his hair, a gesture his adult self does all the time but feels strange in this oh so young body._

_“I am no threat to you,” the bird repeats._

Dean starts awake, a thick bar of late afternoon sunlight stretched across his face.

The day’s storm has passed.

It’s chilly outside, but he grills his dinner anyway. He wants to feel the sun on his face, to hear the birds. They always come after the rain; he refills the feeders and puts extra treats on the deck and they are there, sunning themselves and stuffing themselves with seeds and berries. He tells them about his day, but omits his dream. He doesn’t want to talk about it, even to birds that don’t talk back.

He catches a glimpse of the cardinals in an ash tree and smiles to himself. “They stayed,” he says to the sparrows and the chickadees. “Maybe our flock is growing.” He starts to scan the trees, then stops himself. He is _not_ looking for the jay. That way leads to confusion.

He eats his burger inside, but has pie and coffee on the deck. A sparrow looks at him with something like reproach but Dean just says, “I’m a grown man. I can have three pieces of pie in a day if I want to. Besides, the pie was a gift. Charlie says I’m allowed to be selfish with gifts.” After another forkful of pie he goes on, “You’d like Charlie, I think. I can’t believe I like Charlie, but I do. I feel like I can be myself around her. And I feel like I’ve known her all my life. I hope she likes Lawrence. I hope she decides to stay.” He nods towards the trees. “Like our new friends out there. You should go introduce yourselves. Let them know there’s good food down here.” The sparrow peeps at him and flies off; not towards the trees, but to roost on one of the feeders to eat some more seed.

“Yeah, I get it. You don’t understand me. I’m just talking to myself out here.” He starts to rake his fingers through his hair then stops, remembering that he did that in his dream.

“Where are you?” he says, his voice low. “Did I imagine you from the start?”

But no. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the feather. He didn’t imagine _this_.

As if the feather is some sort of talisman, the bird appears.

“I didn’t--I mean, I wanted to see you again, but I didn’t actually _summon_ you here, did I?” The feather in Dean’s hand starts to shake. It takes him nearly a minute to realize it’s not the feather that’s shaking. It’s his hand.

He takes a few deep breaths. He’s okay.

_\--I am no threat to you.--_

“Please. I don’t know if you understand me or not, but please, stay. You just startled me.”

The jay gives a soft _caw_ but doesn’t fly away, just shifts from foot to foot.

“Is that...are you saying hello?”

Silence.

Dean feels foolish. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “Well anyway, I’m glad to see you again. I thought maybe you’d gone. I still wonder why you’re here, you know. Why’d you fly so far from home?”

The bird cocks his head, but of course it does not answer.

Slowly, so as not to startle the bird, Dean puts a hand into his jacket pocket. “I have a treat for you, if you’d like. Dried cherries. I don’t put them out all the time, I don’t want to spoil you all, or turn you all round and flightless.” He chuckles. The bird looks a bit insulted. He spreads the handful of cherries onto the rail in front of his chair and before he even pulls his hand back the jay is there, a cherry in its beak. It nods at Dean, then swallows it down and immediately picks up another.

Dean nods back, then goes back to his pie. For some reason that he can’t understand he’s pleased to be feeding this bird. Or, not feeding it--sharing a meal with it. 

“That’s ridiculous. We aren’t sharing a meal,” he says to the bird. “Or, if we are, it’s a very unorthodox meal.” The bird gives him a _cheep cheep cheep_\--it sounds like a scolding--and returns to its cherries. Chastised, Dean takes another bite of pie.

They go on in relative silence, the only sound the peeping of the birds at the feeder and the scrape of Dean’s fork on his plate.

When the cherries are gone the jay looks at him and utters a loud _caw_. Dean laughs. “No more tonight. You won’t be able to fly back to your tree. I’d have to roll you inside instead.” The bird hops up and down and gives an indignant _squawk_. “You can’t convince me. I’ll bring you peanuts in the morning.” Seemingly mollified, the bird gives a soft _peep_. “I’m always impressed by you corvids,” Dean says. “Your vocal range is amazing. I once saw a blue jay mimic a hawk’s cry so the birds at the feeders would flee and he could have the food to himself.” The jay cocks its head, then fluffs up its feathers. “Don’t get any ideas now,” he says sternly. “This is a good place. We all get along here. I even feed the squirrels, so long as they stay away from the bird feeders.”

Dean stares at his feeders. “Why _do_ they stay away from the feeders? All my bird books talk about squirrel-proof feeders, and how the squirrels are all such pests, but all my squirrels eat from the squirrel feeder and leave the birds alone.”

Laughing, Dean says, “What am I asking _you_ for? It’s not like you have any answers. Corvids are incredibly intelligent, but I don’t think you’re quite up to this level of conversation.” The jay flicks its tail feathers at Dean, who laughs again. “Yeah, thanks for that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're in for a treat! This chapter contains art by the amazing [KayRoseBee](https://kayrosebee.tumblr.com)! 💙

_He’s lost in the woods, trying to ask a squirrel for directions._

_“You don’t understand,” he pleads. “I live here. A house made of logs, a big deck on the back. Lots of windows. Tall brick chimney. You’ve probably eaten at my feeder! You’ve got to know where it is…”_

_The squirrel chitters at him angrily._

_“You aren’t helping.” Dean is close to tears. He’s lived here almost all his life. How can he possibly be lost?_

_“I’ll find it myself,” he mutters, stomping past the squirrel. It chatters louder, scampering along next to him, climbing a tree to get level with his face. As Dean walks past, something hits the back of his head._

_An acorn._

_“Son of a…” Dean breathes. He rounds on the squirrel. “Did you throw that?”_

Chitter chatter_._

_“Whatever.” He stomps past._

_A steller’s jay lands on the path in front of him._

_“You should listen to her,” the bird says. “She’s trying to tell you that you’re going the wrong way.”_

_“Well she should find a better way to tell me that than throwing acorns at my head,” Dean snaps. “You can talk. Why can’t she?”_

_“She is a squirrel. I am a jay. We are not of the same thing. In some ways we are the same, but in communicating we are very different.”_

_“You don’t talk much like a bird.”_

_“I am a bird, but I am also not a bird. I am...something else.”_

_“Cryptic much?” Dean doesn’t know why he’s being so rude, so argumentative. He doesn’t mean to be, the words just keep pouring out of him._

_The jay ducks his head. “This is not the place for me to explain, nor the way. Come, let’s walk. You need to find your way.”_

_“You’re going to wa--” Dean starts to ask, but before he can finish the question there is a flutter of wings and then a surprisingly solid weight lands on his right shoulder. “Oh,” Dean says, struggling to keep his voice neutral._

_Because honestly? He wants to sing. There is a rush of joy from the brush of feathers against his ear, the slight prick of claws on his skin._

_“Who _are_ you?” Dean whispers. He doesn’t trust himself to raise his voice, doesn’t trust his voice to hold back his awe._

_“I am a jay. I am your friend.” The voice is a low rumble in his ear._

_“Don’t you have a name?”_

_There is that laugh again, that jay laugh. “Of course I do. But it is not for you to know.”_

_“Oh,” says Dean again. His shoulders slump._

_“Not yet,” the jay adds._

Monday Dean is restless. He puts peanuts on the deck as promised, but sees not a hint of blue before he finally gives up and leaves for work. He hopes to see Charlie, but there is a sign reading “GRAND OPENING FRIDAY!” in the window, so he figures she’s too busy for a visit.

Work is the same as always. Ketch is back from England, so there’s a bit of accented chit-chat from his half of the bay. Dean’s responses are mostly grunts and other non-committal noises, but Ketch doesn’t seem to notice. He rambles on about his sister’s wedding and his twin brother’s rabble rousing at the reception. “I, of course, tried to stay out of everything, but failed miserably. Such is my life.” Dean almost laughs at this, but manages at the last minute to turn it into another grunt. Ketch, keeping his nose to himself? He’s such a nosy busybody, he knows everybody’s business. Dean’s surprised he hasn’t heard Charlie’s life story from Ketch yet.

At home the evening is unseasonably warm. He chats with the cardinal pair, who have ventured close and are eating seeds from beneath the feeders now, but he sees no sign of the jay.

The peanuts, however, are gone.

He doesn’t dream that night, or if he does, he doesn’t remember when he wakes up. He’s usually fairly cheerful in the morning, at least after he’s had a cup of coffee. This morning the coffee doesn’t help. If anything, the time on the deck makes him more irritable.

The usual morning crew is there, the chickadees and the sparrows, along with the two new cardinals. For a moment he thinks he hears the call of a jay, but it’s gone the moment he focuses on it. He sees nothing blue, not even an errant feather. Even the sky is a steely grey.

After what happened last time, he’s afraid to reach into his pocket and touch the feather he put there when he got dressed, but he knows it’s real. He did not imagine it.

He leaves more peanuts on the deck. He lines them up, still studiously not searching the nearby trees for blue feathers. “I can’t even call out to you by name,” he says. A nearby sparrow peeps at him, as if to say, “It’s all well and good that you talk to _us_, but why are you talking to _peanuts_?”

Ketch rambles on at work again, this time about an old girlfriend he ran into while he was back home. “All I wanted was a pint at the pub with my old neighborhood mates. We were going to watch a football match. And then Abigail walked in, and she’d just had a bad breakup… what else was I supposed to do? I bought her a drink, and then I was stuck with her for three days. Three days! Nice enough girl, but it just wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my holiday!”

Dean is up to his elbows in the engine of a 1968 Ford Mustang, so he doesn’t mind letting Ketch go on. He isn’t so much listening as letting Ketch’s talk wash over him. He loves old cars like this. It’s no ‘67 Impala of course; the first smile of the day ghosts across Dean’s lips as he thinks of his car. Like Alfie is trying to do now, Dean had worked hard when he was a teenager, saved for years until, when he was 22, he could finally afford to buy the old wreck. And wreck she had been, back then anyway. Today she’s perfect, black and sleek and shiny. 

Dean’s nearly finished with the Mustang, and Ketch is nearly finished with his thoughts on rebounds with ex-girlfriends, when there is a soft whooshing noise and a smooth voice says, “Hello boys.”

Dean jumps, bangs his hand against something inside the car’s engine, and swears under his breath. Turning, he says to the apparition in the middle of the bay, “Dammit, Crowley! Do you have to do that? We do have a phone!”

Crowley may have only been a sending, an image of himself, but his easy grin could still peel the paint off every car in the garage. Off the walls, too. “I don’t _have_ to. It’s fun, though. And you know I don’t like to use the phone. It buzzes against my magic, gives me feedback inside my head.”

_What could it hurt **there**?_ Dean thinks. Out loud he says, “Use one of your runners, then. Isn’t that what you pay them for?”

Crowley grins again. “I’m the boss, Dean. And as the boss, I get to do fun things like drop in on my employees to see what’s what. Even if you don’t like it. So, my ducks, what’s what?”

“Dean’s finishing up the Mustang, and I’ve got this VW Beetle nearly ready to roll. After that we’re both going to work on the Audi that was in the car crash, Dean on the engine an me on the body.” Ketch rattles off exactly what’s going on in the shop, and Dean is grateful. He can feel his irritation from the morning coming back, and he doesn’t want to get himself into trouble with his boss.

“Excellent,” Crowley says. “Keep up the good work, boys.” He vanishes.

“Good work,” Dean grumbles. “As if he has any idea what goes into taking care of a car. As if he’s even ever _seen_ a car.”

“To be fair, it would probably make him throw up and do _really_ disastrous magic. Perhaps even at the same time.”

Dean stares at Ketch. “Are you _defending_ that prick?”

Ketch holds his hands up, as if to ward Dean off. “No, no, not at all. He’s a self-righteous bastard, that one. He thinks because he owns half the town he has a right to the people as well. I just mean… I wouldn’t expect you to know all about magic. Why do you expect him to know all--or _anything_\--about cars?”

“Because he owns a garage!”

“Ah. Yes. There is that.”

Dean surprises Ketch by laughing.

“Do you have to be so British about everything?” he asks, still laughing.

“Quite,” says Ketch, proving Dean’s point.

Feeling a bit lighter, Dean finishes the Mustang, cleans up, then says to Ketch, “I’m going to take a break. Cover for me if Crowley pops by again? I’ll just be across the street.”

Ketch looks like he wants to ask several (million) questions, but all he says is, “Quite.”

“Thanks, Ketch.”

Dean is out the door before Ketch can change his mind.

The “grand opening” sign is still in her window, but Frodo is tied to the hitching post in front of the building, so Dean thinks that means Charlie is home. As he crosses the street he sees her shadow against the glass of the storefront.

He doesn’t know if he’s happy or terrified.

Bracing himself, he knocks on the front window. Charlie looks up, smiles, waves. Dean knows his smile is forced—his jaw actually hurts from clenching his teeth—but he’s trying.

Charlie throws open the door and practically shouts, “Dean!” at his face, and her smile brings his anxiety down a notch. It’s still sky-high—he still can’t believe he’s willingly entering a place that’s absolutely steeped in magic—but here he is.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Charlie says carefully, almost exactly echoing his thoughts.

“I’d do anything for pie,” he says with a nervous laugh.

“Ah,” she says. “You have good timing then. The apple crumble is cooling now.” She steps aside, opens the door wide.

His first step inside is hesitant, but Charlie’s smile is warm and draws him in. 

“It’s...not so bad,” he says once he’s standing fully inside the bakery. There is a quaver in his voice.

“Liar,” Charlie says, but it’s gentle. She does something complex with her fingers and mutters a few strange sounding syllables under her breath. The feeling of magic buzzing against his skin and pushing against his temples lessens. “Sorry about the charms,” she says. “I can’t turn them off, but I can… well, I guess the best way to describe it is that I can lower their volume. Did it help?”

Dean nods. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s not great. But it’s better. I don’t feel quite so...oppressed.”

“Have some pie. That’ll make it even better.”

“Pie makes _everything_ better.”

The pie is warm and delicious, with just the right amount of crumble topping on top. The bakery isn’t meant to be a restaurant really, it’s a shop, but there’s a counter with a few stools specially for people who want to try different cakes or pastries, and in one corner there’s a table for two. “I’m not going to make specialty coffees or anything, but I’ll have hot water for tea, and I’ll always have coffee on for myself, so I’m willing to share. If someone wants to sit and eat their cupcakes here, they’re more than welcome. Besides, this way I can sit down with a friend every once in awhile.” She grins. “Which means, as of right now anyway, _you_. You’re the only person I’ve really met here, you know. I’ve got other magical contacts, but no other true friends. That Eileen is a possibility though. You sure were right about her, she’s made of strong stuff. Sam too--not that he seems particularly tough, that he seems like a potential friend. You’ve got a good family.”

Dean’s face momentarily darkens, but his green eyes are clear when he says, “I do now.”

Charlie looks like she wants to ask questions, but somehow manages to hold her tongue. Instead she asks brightly, “How’s the pie?”

Dean grins. “Perfection. And if you need references in the future, just ask. I’ll be willing to taste test and extol every type of pie you bake. Not just willing. Eager.”

“I do bake other things, you know,” Charlie says, blushing slightly. “Cookies. Cupcakes. Cinnamon rolls and muffins for breakfast.”

“Bring it on,” Dean says, patting his stomach. “But pie always comes first…”

Charlie giggles. “You sound like you’re worried about hurting the pie’s feelings.”

“Maybe I am.” Dean tries to hold a straight face, but his lip quavers and his smile breaks through.

They laugh together, and dean feels lighter than he has in days. Without thinking he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the jay’s feather, and in a single motion drops it onto the table between them.

Charlie’s laughter catches in her throat.

“Don’t panic, Charlie. You don’t have to talk. Just listen, okay? I just need to talk to someone about this, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who can possibly understand. Even if you can’t say anything.” He looks into her eyes, pleading silently. After a long pause he says simply, “Please?”

She holds his gaze without blinking and then, slowly, nods.

“I’ve been dreaming about the jay. Nearly every night. I start out having a normal dream, something I’ve dreamed before, or something that seems perfectly ordinary anyway, and then suddenly there’s this beautiful bird. And I always recognize it—no, not _it_. _Him_.” Charlie’s eyes widen, ever so slightly, at his correction, but she does not speak. “Yeah, I know the bird is a him. He talks to me. Opens his beak and speaks, with a voice like gravel. A voice that makes me shiver.”

Dean rakes his fingers through his hair. “He talked to me about leaving the feather on my deck. He explained that he visits me in my dreams because he can’t speak in the real world. And for some reason even I can’t understand I tell him things I’ve never told anyone else. And he told me…” Here Dean looks at Charlie, and his heart pounds in his ears. “He told me I shouldn’t be afraid of him. That’s all I want to know, Charlie. Because I think maybe you can tell me that much. Should I be afraid? Is he… is he _safe_?”

Charlie opens her mouth, closes it again, and closes her eyes. Finally, when Dean is sure she’s not going to answer, she whispers, “I honestly don’t know, Dean. _Safe?_ I just don’t know. But be brave. You are strong.”


	8. Chapter 8

When Dean wakes up Friday morning, he’s not sure where the week has gone. He knows he went to work, fed his birds, dreamed increasingly vivid dreams, visited Charlie in her bakery, and even stayed late one evening to help her hang artwork and other “finishing touches” on the walls. (She told him in advance where all the charms were hidden, and he gave those a wide berth. One of them, a “pleasant” Relax and Breathe Easy, actually made him run to the bathroom, sick. He stayed there for twenty minutes, until Charlie eased that one back as far as it would go. She’d been amazed; she’d never seen so strong a reaction. When he finally peeked his head out of the bathroom, she looked at him with a mixture of apology, pity, and something that almost looked like she wanted to plop him in a lab somewhere and study him. He pretended he didn’t notice that bit.)

He’s only seen the jay a handful of times all week; the bird seems much more likely to show up in Dean’s dreams than in his backyard. But the evidence of his existence is everywhere: peanuts and dried cherries disappear, and three more times he finds long blue feathers. Only the original, the smallest, fits in his pocket, but the other three he hangs from the rearview mirror of his car. Every time he sees them he chides himself for his sentimentality, but just like the feather in his pocket these three help ground him in reality. The bird is real, and not just a dream. It may not speak to him when he’s awake, but it exists.

He is not losing his mind.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Ketch!”

Ketch, just about to head out into the bay, pauses in the doorway to Dean’s office. “Need something?”

“A favor, actually.” He feels the familiar roiling in the pit of his stomach, but pushes it aside, handing Ketch a small woven basket. “Today is Charlie’s grand opening. Could you take this to her for me? There’s, uh, just too much magic over there today. I could feel it when I drove up.”

“No worries.” He takes the basket, trying to get a peek inside, but the contents are covered by a towel.

Dean grins. “Always the nosy one, Ketch. It’s just a little good luck gift I baked, and a note. Thanks for taking it over.” He opens a desk drawer and retrieves his wallet, handing Ketch some money. “Bring back a pie or two? For the sake of celebration, of course.”

“Of course,” Ketch repeats. Nodding once, he hangs the basket over his arm and walks smartly out the door.

When Ketch is gone, Dean lets his head fall forward onto the stack of messages on his desk. He hates sending someone else to see Charlie for him, but there would be so much magic swirling about the place on her first day. The charms would be working overtime, getting to know so many new people.

But he’s hoping he’ll be able to see her tonight.

_Charlie,_

_Wish I could be there for your Grand Opening, but I don’t think a guy having a panic attack on your floor would be good for business. Since you can’t see me, enjoy the bread. I made it myself, see I told you I could bake._

_You close at six, right? I can stick around that long, if you’d like, and help you clean up. Maybe I’ll even help with dinner. I can cook too. Send an answer with Ketch (the British guy who delivered the basket) or just ask someone who’s leaving to stop by and let me know, everyone around here knows the shop._

_Dean_

There won’t be many birds in the backyard by the time he gets home, but that’s alright. Charlie’s his friend.

With a sigh, Dean begins to sort through the ridiculously large stack of messages from Crowley, most of which could have waited until next week. And _three_ inventory questions? Crowley knows Dean keeps meticulous records, surely he doesn’t need to ask about the inventory in three separate messages.

He shakes his head, shrugging inwardly. Maybe the messengers just wanted to visit the new bakery.

“Dean! Dean!” Ketch bursts into the garage, wild-eyed, shouting Dean’s name.

Dean, mindful of the cars in his care even when he’s startled, instinctually steps back from the Mazda he’s working on before he drops his socket wrench in surprise. “Ketch?” he says over the clanging metal.

Ketch holds up a hand, asking Dean to wait while he catches his breath. He’s practically doubled over. He’s obviously run from across the street, but his breathlessness seems to be more than that. Dean wants to push, but he holds back, waiting.

After what seems like an eternity, but is likely only fifteen seconds or so, Ketch straightens and meets Dean’s gaze. “It’s Charlie,” he says, still straining to breathe and keep himself under control. “An accident at the bakery. Or not an accident, no one really knows.” Seeing the fear on Dean’s face, he’s quick to add, “She’s alive, Dean. But she’s hurt. Badly. There are healer medics on their way now, to take her to the hospital.”

Dean feels the color drain from his face as the nausea rises in his stomach. “Charlie?” he whispers.

“You’re the best friend she’s got here, Dean. I’m not sure she’s got anyone else. I know it’s not your...I mean, I know you’re a bit…”

Dean is already heading toward his office. “I’ll go with her.”

“I’ll send a message to Crowley!” Ketch shouts after him. Dean barely registers the words.

He’s still talking himself into it when he’s out of his coveralls and dashing across the street. “Of course I’ll go with her. Charlie’s my friend, I can’t let her be alone.”

When he pushes his way into the bakery, bursting through the doors and a small crowd all at once, he nearly loses his breakfast. Pressing hand over his mouth he runs to where two healer medics are using magic to lift Charlie onto a stretcher. “Charlie!” The name feels ripped from him, and all his breath goes with it.

Dean can actually see the haze of magic around his friend. Steeling himself for the discomfort, saying “It’s for Charlie” over and over under his breath, he goes to her side.

She looks so pale, so _small_. Her clothing has been burned, is actually still giving off a wisp of smoke or two. Her right arm, from fingertips to shoulder, is a mess of black and red, skin crackled from whatever fire tried to take her away. The origin of the burns is obvious: one of her ovens is a smoking ruin, a few stubborn flames still flickering in its depths.

He wants to give her comfort somehow, to hold her and take her away from the pain, but he knows even the slightest touch will hurt her. So he murmurs under his breath; he isn’t even sure what he’s saying, trying to hold himself together and give her what little strength he has at the same time. Eventually all he can say is, “I’m here, Charlie. I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m here. You’re going to be okay,” repeated on a loop.

And then the healer medics are there, popping Dean’s personal space bubble without a thought, immediately casting unknown spells over Charlie’s weak and broken body. A spike of pain shoots through Dean’s head, along with overwhelming nausea, but sheer will keeps him from leaving his friend. It’s the same will that insists he ride along in the wagon to the hospital, and holds him in the waiting room, and leads him to the uncomfortable chair at her bedside.

“You’re going to be okay, Charlie,” he says. He wants to hold her hand but the healers told him that even though her skin looks fresh and new it is still tender and needs time to acclimate to her body. He settles for gripping the plastic rail of the hospital bed. He doesn’t notice the white knuckles on his hand or the way the rail quivers from time to time, an extension of his trembling.

He wants to say more, to reassure her, but his throat is thick with fear and relief and the nausea roiling inside him threatens to overwhelm him at any moment. So he just sits, waiting and watching. Hoping.


	9. Chapter 9

The shaking has nearly subsided by the time Dean gets home. He thinks it would probably be stronger, but his body is just too exhausted to keep it up any longer. He sits for a moment in the sudden quiet of the Impala, runs trembling fingers through his hair. _Charlie._ They said she was going to be okay, that her skin was already like new and she was only unconscious because of the magic sleep they put on her so her body could heal properly, but she just looked so small and frail. Her body is always small, but her personality is so big that when he’s next to her he usually feels like he’s standing in the shadow of a sequoia.

Dean drags himself into the house. The clock on the back of the oven reads 3:14. No wonder he’s tired. Tired, there’s an understatement. His eyelids scratch his eyes every time he blinks, and he tastes the bitterness of too many cups of coffee in his throat. He can barely lift his feet, but forces himself to the fridge for a beer, and then to the deck. The birds are all asleep, heads tucked under wings, snuggled up with their mates, but the deck is his place. He drops into his favorite chair, the beer nearly slipping from his fingers.

He allows the tears to come at last.

Are they tears of relief? Of exhaustion? Of sick, unfiltered terror? He doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is he’s feeling, he’s got to get it out.

The bottle, still nearly full, is sweating in his hands, condensation dripping through his fingers onto the deck, when he starts to feel a little more like himself again. The blackness of the night is giving way to the faint grey light of the almost dawn.

There’s a rustle beside him and he nearly lets the bottle slip from his grasp.

The jay is sitting on the arm of his chair.

Head tilted, eyes bright with what Dean can only call intelligence, the bird gives a soft _peep_. It almost sounds like a sigh. He takes a hesitant hop forward, then when Dean doesn’t move or object, he hops again, this time onto Dean’s knee.

Dean doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to breathe. Most of the birds he feeds have grown accustomed to his presence, some even perching on the rail in front of his chair to beg for treats or just chirp and warble at him in their form of conversation. But they are wild animals, creatures of wind and sky, and he never forgets that. And they don’t either; they know he Gives Food and is Mostly Safe, but there is always a distance. Dean has never tried to stroke their feathers or offered food from his hand. They are not his pets, and he would never want them to be. They belong to the air, to the trees. To tether them to earth, even for a moment, would be criminal.

This one bird breaks every rule with one small hop.

“Thank you,” Dean murmurs once he finds his voice. “I needed that, I think. I wish I could thank you properly, I don’t even have…”

His words, even his thoughts, trail off into emptiness. Because suddenly the bird is quivering, from the top of his ruffled head to the tip of his tail. He glides from Dean’s knee to the wood planks of the deck at his feet and--

Dean jumps up, the chair clattering to the deck behind him. He blinks, several times, and still isn’t sure what he’s seeing. The jay is..._melting_. And _growing_. His colors are changing, the top of his head is still shiny black, but the rest of his body loses the blue and becomes a creamy peach color, dusted with bronze. He doubles in size, then doubles again, and too fast for Dean to register they are nearly the same height. Wings shrink and stretch, legs lengthen and thicken, feathers disappear.

The bird is gone. Standing in front of Dean is a man.

A man with disheveled black hair and eyes the same blue as the feather in Dean’s pocket. He stretches out his arms, wiggling his fingers, then grins.

“Hello Dean,” he says. The voice is familiar, the voice of the bird in his dreams.

Dean’s brain is having a hard time catching up. There was a bird, and now there’s a man. A man who speaks with the bird’s voice.

A man who, at the moment, isn’t wearing any clothes.

Dean opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to find words but coming up with nothing. Finally the bird--no, the _man_\--speaks again.

“Are you okay?”

That does it--the words tumble out of Dean’s mouth in a torrent. “Am I _okay_? No, I am decidedly _not_ okay. There is nothing even remotely okay about any of this. Who are you? Why are you on my deck? Where are your clothes? And what happened to my--I mean, to the bird?” He feels dizzy and confused; he claws at his hair, hoping the pain will wake him up. It doesn’t work; all he gets from it is a slightly sore scalp.

“My name is Castiel. I’m on your deck because you were sad and I wanted to comfort you. I haven’t worn clothes in awhile, unless you count feathers. And Dean, I _am_ the bird. The transformation isn’t the prettiest thing to watch, but I know you saw.”

Shaking his head several times, Dean just stares. Finally he says, “I saw...I don’t know _what_ I saw. I don’t think I can trust my eyes right now. Am I dreaming?”

The man--_Castiel,_ Dean thinks--smiles softly. “This isn’t a dream. I’m real.”

“But…” Dean isn’t sure what he wants to say. If it is a dream it doesn’t matter. But if it isn’t…

“What _are_ you?” Dean blurts. “You can’t be human.”

Castiel’s feather-blue eyes turn serious. “Dean, I _am_ human. Just as human as you are. Do I not look human?”

Dean nods. 

Castiel takes Dean’s hand and holds it flat against his chest, above his beating heart. “Do I not _feel_ human?”

Dean feels heat rise in his cheeks; he is suddenly and intensely aware that Castiel is quite naked.

And very, _very _beautiful.

And Dean is touching his naked chest.

“I…” Dean’s mouth feels turned to cotton. He tries to swallow, licks his lips, then tries again. “You feel human enough.” His voice is a rasp. “I still think I’m dreaming, though.”

Castiel’s heart continues to beat against Dean’s hand. The skin of his chest is warm, almost hot, despite the chilly spring air. Not to mention the lack of clothing.

“I think, uh, maybe we should go inside. I’ve got some clothes that will fit you, looks like we’re about the same size.” His eyes betray him, darting downward before looking at Castiel’s face again. Dean feels his cheeks burn even hotter. But the odd man doesn’t seem to notice, he meets Dean’s eyes with a level gaze.

“Alright,” he says, his eyes solemn. “Lead the way.”

Inside, Dean rushes to find clothes for Castiel, then gestures him toward the bathroom. Castiel tilts his head, in a gesture so birdlike Dean nearly laughs. But he knows the laughter would sound hysterical and not at all sane, so he chokes it back. “Why should I go into another room just to put on clothing? It’s not complicated, I can do it right here with no trouble.”

Dean gropes for an answer, then decides to go with the truth. “I just need a minute alone. To think. To…” He runs his fingers through his hair, then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I just need to catch up. It’s been a rather eventful day.”

“Alright,” says Castiel again. He turns and walks down the hallway toward the bathroom. Dean watches him go, catching his eyes lingering on Castiel’s naked butt.

_Stop that,_ he chides himself, hastily turning to the kitchen. _Now is **not** the time._ Now is the time for food. And maybe alcohol.

But once he gets to the kitchen he just stands there, looking from the fridge to the cupboards to the pantry door without opening anything. What does a man who is sometimes a bird (or is that a bird who is sometimes a man? Dean doesn’t want to think about that right now) eat? He has no idea. Is he going to want seeds and peanuts and dried cherries? Or should he just make sandwiches? He could pop some popcorn, that would be a bridge between the two worlds…

In the end he goes with sandwiches _and_ popcorn, plus two glasses of grape juice. Beer would be nice--more than nice, it would be damned near perfect--but he decides he doesn’t need to muddle his brain right now. And do birds even drink alcohol?

Preparing the food calms him. He lets himself get lost in the familiar task, assembling sandwiches with hearty homemade bread, roast beef, and colby jack cheese, and when he hears footsteps behind him he realizes he didn’t do any of the thinking he’d planned to do.

When he turns, Castiel spreads his hands in a “how’s this?” gesture, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean’s heart speeds up at the sight of Castiel in his own sweatpants and favorite t-shirt. “Lookin’ good,” he says, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. He gestures helplessly at the food spread on the small kitchen table. “I didn’t know what to make. I didn’t think a plateful of sunflower seeds and dried cherries would be right, but if that makes you more comfortable…” He shrugs, not meeting Castiel’s eyes.

But suddenly Castiel stands right in front of him, close, and Dean is breathless from the sudden lack of personal space. “It’s fine, Dean. You worry too much.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with his grin. “I have to say, I’m excited to see popcorn. It’s been ages. And the last time I had it was when someone was feeding birds in a park. Things taste...different, when I’m in my bird-form. As a bird, it’s more about eating to live. As a human--well, you understand. I saw you eating pie, eating it because it was good, not just to fuel your body.”

Bewildered, Dean slides into a chair. Castiel sits opposite him and immediately grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl. “Mmm,” he hums, pleasure all over his face. “Makes me think of movie theatres and county fairs.”

Without thinking Dean blurts out, “How is that even possible? You’re a bird! Or you were, anyway…” He scrubs a hand across his face. “Are you going to clue me in or just sit there and eat popcorn?”

Castiel’s hand hangs in mid-air, halfway to his mouth. He drops it to his lap, a few kernels of popcorn scattering across the floor. “You may not like this,” he says with a sigh. When Dean doesn’t respond, he begins to tell his tale.

“I’m not a shapeshifter. Not really; a true shapeshifter has no form of his own. He sees a form he likes and copies it, and goes from one to another for his whole life. He generally has one species he prefers--human, dog, lion, whatever--but he can go from one to another with a thought. And I have no relation at all to what you humans call werewolves--I was not infected, and I am not controlled by the cycle of the moon.”

He pauses, searching for the best way to begin. “There’s a tale among the bird-kin, passed down in the nest to every nestling. It’s just a bedtime story, but it may help you understand.” His voice falls into the cadence of a storyteller, and Dean finds himself unable to look away.

_Back when the world was new, when the sun danced bright across the waters and the trees waved their branches at the clouds, the first ravens made their nest in the cleft of a rocky cliff. Their nest was good, protected from the sun and the rain, a place to keep their eggs and nestlings safe from the clever paws of the marten and the sharp talons of the owl._

_Below their nest, at the base of the cliff, there was a cave, and there the first man and first woman made their home. They too found safety from the sun and the rain, and hoped they could protect their young from the dangers of the world._

_So did the first ravens and first humans live in harmony, raising their young together. The nestlings teased the children, swooping down to tug at hair or steal playthings, and the children danced and laughed and shared their food with the nestlings. Ever slowly, but also in no time at all, the children grew from playful boys and girls to men and women ready for children of their own. So too did the ravens grow, and soon they all searched for good places to nest._

_All save one._

_The first ravens watched their daughter with growing despair. They were the first, but from the moment they began they knew how to be birds. Hatch, fledge, fly, nest. Their daughter had done the first three, and done them well, but she would not nest. Instead she flew from tree to tree and back again, never straying far from the humans who lived below. Her parents fretted quietly to each other, but did not know how to teach her to nest._

_One night the young raven flew to the top of the tallest tree and cried to the night. “I wish I could shed my wings and walk with the humans below!”_

_The moon above heard her lament. “Child!” she said to the raven. “What has broken your feathered heart?”_

_“Love,” the raven replied. “I love where I should not. I loved a boy, and now that he is a man I love him still, but how can a bird show love to a man?”_

_“Fly to the grass, little one,” said the moon, “for there is magic in my light.”_

_So the raven flew down a moonbeam, and when she landed in the clearing before the cave she was no longer a bird, but a raven-haired woman holding long black feathers in each hand. She cried out again, but this time with delight._

_The moon, seeing that it was good, spoke again. “I give you a gift, dear one, for you need not choose between land and sky. You are a bird **and** a human, and so shall your children be for all eternity.”_

_And when the boy-turned-man saw her he knew her at once, and he loved her completely. They made a home together, and a life, and children besides, and though she lived on the ground she often returned to the air, there to soar on the wind and sing her thanks to the moon._

“There is magic in the moonlight still, I think,” Cas says after his taletelling falls to silence. “I’ve been wanting to show you this part of me for days, to speak to you with my own voice and have you look into my eyes and know I’m not just a dream. So tonight, when you thanked me and made a wish…” He shrugs. “It just seemed like the right time.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fabulous art by [KayRoseBee](https://kayrosebee.tumblr.com)!! 💙

Dean can’t sleep.

His bed is comfortable and his body is exhausted, but his brain just won’t let him rest.

There’s a man sleeping in his guest room, wearing his pajamas--_or possibly wearing nothing at all_, his traitorous mind interjects. He shoves that thought aside, going in another direction altogether. Castiel is a bird. And also a man. And he’s in my house.

Soon after Castiel finished his tale he’d noticed Dean’s exhaustion, and he’d told Dean to sleep. “I know you have more questions, but you’ve been awake for nearly a full day now. I’ll come back in the morning,” he’d said, standing and moving toward the back door. Dean had panicked at the thought of Castiel leaving. _I can actually talk to him now. I don’t want him to fly away!_ So Dean had blurted out that no one ever slept in his guest room, and wouldn’t Castiel like the comfort of a soft, warm bed for once?

Dean imagines he can hear Castiel breathing through the wall that separates them. Imagines he hears the rustle of feathers. He knows the sounds are in his head, but the house does seem...fuller. Less lonely. No one’s slept in his guest room since that week Sam and Eileen repainted all the rooms in their house. Has it really been eight years since then?

Sam. Sam’s going to think he’s crazy, or at the very least that the situation is. Dean’s been talking to Sam about the birds for years, what will he say when he brings one home? Or maybe Castiel won’t want his secret spread about. Dean wouldn’t want to keep something like this from his brother, though. What would he say? “Oh, I fixed his car and then I invited him to stay at my house.” When he thinks about it, though, is inviting a strange man to stay in his house any more likely than a bird transforming into a naked man on his deck?

He rolls onto his side, flipping his pillow to find a cool spot. The clock blinks from 5:01 to 5:02, and Dean can see a hint of sunrise through the crack in his curtains. He needs to sleep; he hadn’t wanted to leave Charlie and he wants to get back to her as soon as he can. His stomach twists at the thought of being in that hospital again. Magic permeates the walls, the beds, the people. He’d imagined he could feel stray magic twisting around his ankles like a cat while he sat at Charlie’s bedside. At least it had been a friendly cat. No biting.

“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters. “Magic is never friendly.”

Just as he’s drifting off to sleep a question dances on the edge of his thoughts: _Why isn’t he nervous around Castiel? His entire being is magic...isn’t it?_

Dean wakes up slowly. There’s bright sunlight shining around his curtains so he throws an arm across his face and squeezes his eyes shut. Swimming to wakefulness, he pulls himself to a sitting position. “That was a hell of a dream,” he says. He’d finally gone over the edge, dreaming about a bird turning into a ridiculously attractive man right in front of him. It had been a good dream, though. Too bad it’s time to get back to reality.

There’s a clatter from the direction of the kitchen and he freezes, eyes wide. Next comes an odd crunching sound, followed by a yelp and frustrated muttering. A heavy thud, a metallic crash, and a rough male voice shouts, “Fuck!”

Dean is halfway to the kitchen before he lets himself think that maybe it wasn’t a dream. But of course it was a dream. There can’t possibly be a bird-turned-man in his kitchen.

He skids to a halt in the dining room and he can’t help the laughter that bursts from him. Castiel is hopping around on one foot, the other gripped in his hands, whispering “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Fuck, that hurt. Ouch! Stupid human feet.” At the sound of Dean’s laughter he turns, glaring. “This is funny to you? Your frying pan broke every bone in my foot! That’s what I get for trying to cook breakfast.”

Dean tries to stifle the laughter. He almost succeeds but then Castiel slips, Dean darts forward to catch him, and they end up a tangled mess on the kitchen floor. Dean gives in and laughs harder.

“First of all, I doubt _every_ bone in your foot is broken. There are quite a few of them, you know. Second, cast iron is the best way to go, as long as you don’t drop it on your foot. And third, you were making breakfast? It looks like you were learning a new dance. ‘The Curse of the Frying Pan’ maybe, or ‘The Kitchen Complaint.’ Castiel glares again, but the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly.

“I dropped an egg,” he says, his face reddening. “When I reached for the paper towels, to clean it up, I bumped the handle of the skillet, and it fell on my foot. I’m guessing you heard my reaction.”

Dean rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “I was sitting in bed, sure I’d dreamed you up. But when I heard you swearing…” He grins. “I don’t think I’d dream that.”

For a full minute they just look at each other. Dean is lost in those blue eyes, so strikingly like the feathers of the bird he’s been feeding for over a week. The bird he’s been dreaming of for over a week.

It’s too much.

Breaking eye contact, Dean waves toward the table and chairs. “Sit down,” he says. “Let me take a look at that foot.” They sit, and Castiel puts his bare foot on Dean’s lap. Dean nearly shivers at the contact. Taking the offered, clearly bruised foot in his hands, he gently flexes and points it. Castiel winces but doesn’t react more than that. “I’m pretty sure it’s not broken, Cas. Just bruised. Stay away from frying pans for a few days and you should be fine.” He winks.

Castiel is looking at him oddly, head tilted to one side.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Cas?” Castiel says, his lips forming the word with exaggerated clarity.

“You don’t like it?”

“I do. It’s just...new. No one has ever given me a nickname before.” He gives Dean a solemn look. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean can feel the heat rising up his neck. “It’s nothing,” he says, and then he realizes he’s still holding Cas’s foot in his hands. Trying not to cause him any pain, Dean lifts up Cas’s foot and slides sideways off his chair. He rests the foot on his vacated chair, saying, “I’ll get you some ice. And breakfast. I’ll show you how to do it without injuring yourself. Do you like coffee?”

The moan that escapes Cas’s lips is nearly indecent.

Dean chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Cas sits at the table, foot up and icing, watching Dean make breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with strawberry jam, and--of course--coffee. Dean chatters while he cooks, keeping up a running commentary on the best ways to prepare eggs and bragging slightly about the slices of homemade bread he drops into the toaster.

Just as Dean slides two full plates onto the table his phone rings, playing Sympathy for the Devil. Dean starts. “Crowley? But he hates phones, he never…” Realization washes over him like ice water hitting his stomach. Of course Crowley is calling. It’s Saturday morning, he’s supposed to be at work, doing oil changes with Alfie and Ketch.

“Shit. How did I…” But of course he knows how he forgot. First Charlie, then Cas, it had been a hell of a night. A roller coaster of a night. How could he be expected to remember his own name, let alone his work schedule?

The phone is still ringing.

Dean presses the screen to answer, and before he can speak Crowley’s voice blasts through the tiny speaker. “Dean Winchester! Why the hell aren’t you in my garage, changing oil for the good people of Lawrence?”

Gritting his teeth but trying to stay calm, Dean says, “I’m sure you’ve talked to Ketch, so you must know what happened at the bakery across from the garage last night. I was at the hospital with the baker for hours, I didn’t get home until three this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.” After a pause, he adds, “Sir.” He wants to keep going, to say that if he tried to do an oil change right now he’d probably end up doing more damage than good--he’s still rather tired, and he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee yet--but he holds his tongue.

“I don’t care if you were nursing with Florence bloody Nightengale, you get--”

“I’ll be in Monday,” Dean interrupts. Then he hangs up.

Cas’s eyes are wide, coffee cup frozen a mere inch from his lips. “You just hung up on your boss. He’ll fire you for sure.”

Dean grins. “Nah. He knows I’m the best for miles, he couldn’t survive without me. I’ll be fine.” He slides into his chair and picks up his fork, waving at the food. “Let’s eat, I didn’t make this beautiful breakfast for it to go to waste while we talk about Crowley.”

The coffee finally finishes its journey to Cas’s lips. Dean pointedly _doesn’t_ watch him swallow, _doesn’t_ watch the way his eyelids flutter with pleasure at the taste. Except for maybe out of the corner of his eye. Just a bit. But the soft moan Cas makes as he drinks...Dean takes a deep breath to hold back his shiver.

“It’s a wonderful thing, to be a bird,” Cas says, a soft sigh in his gravelly voice. “But I’d almost give up the freedom of flight for a good cup of coffee.”

“Good thing you don’t have to choose.”

Cas looks at Dean, surprise in his eyes. “I can go back and forth at will, although it’s a bit uncomfortable. But this is my first time in human form in over a year. It’s rather difficult to do it just on a lark, I’d have to steal clothing and food or money, and I’ve never learned how to drive. So I spend most of my time as a bird. It’s just easier.”

Dean hadn’t considered the difficulties. He eats his breakfast, contemplating quietly. Finally he asks, “How do you manage?”

“There are some of us who live mostly as humans. They have places set up to welcome us, with lots of clothing of all sizes, extra beds. Usually bicycles too, it’s easier to learn to ride a bike than to get a driver's license.”

“Wouldn’t a place like that stand out? Sudden random new people?”

Cas’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “They’re all in tourist-heavy places. You’d be amazed how many birds are in Disneyland every day. Walking around without feathers, I mean.”

“It’s a whole new world,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“I don’t need a magic carpet to fly,” Cas deadpans.

Dean throws the crust of his toast at him. “That was terrible,” he says, but they’re both laughing.

“So why are you so far east?” Dean asks, going back to his eggs. “I’ve never seen a Stellar’s Jay out here before. I’d only ever seen pictures before you flew into my backyard, actually.”

Cas is still smiling, but his eyes grow serious. “You know how some birds have an extra sense? That bit in their head that tells them when it’s time to fly south in the winter, and which way south actually is? And then it gives them the opposite instructions in the spring?”

Dean nods. “It’s always seemed a bit like magic to me,” he says, a touch of unease in his voice.

“It’s not magic, Dean.” He reaches across the table and rests his fingertips gently on the back of Dean’s hand. “It’s mysterious, but so much of the world is mysterious. How do bees tell each other where to find flowers? How do baby sea turtles make it to the ocean with no one to tell them the way? Just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s magic.”

Dean listens, but the combination of Cas’s low, rough voice and the touch of his fingers on Dean’s hand has him practically frozen in place.

The corner of Cas’s mouth turns up in a smile. “This _is_ going to sound a bit like magic, though it’s just one of nature’s mysteries. We--corvids--have an extra sense similar to those birds who migrate in winter and spring. Most of the time it isn’t necessary, because there are generally large numbers of us in a given area, and finding what you’re looking for is easier with the normal senses than the extra one. Oftentimes it’s someone you’ve known since you learned to fly, or nearly. But other times, there’s a...pull. And that’s why I’m in Kansas. Following that little pull inside my head, leading me to my mate.”


	11. Chapter 11

“You don’t have to come in with me, you know,” Dean says, getting out of his Impala and looking at Cas over the car’s shiny black roof. “You can wander around town, meet me back here in half an hour or so. It’ll just be boring for you inside, you don’t even know Charlie.”

For the past two hours he’s had one thought banging around inside his head, repeating over and over: _leading me to my mate, leading me to my mate, leading me…_ Cas had flown east following a bird, a _female_ bird, to settle down and have little nestlings of his own. This chemistry, this ridiculous _pull_ he feels toward the bird-man with the messy hair and depthless blue eyes--it’s all in his head. When the hospital had called to tell him Charlie was awake and asking for him, Dean had been relieved; not just because Charlie was okay, but because he could get away from Cas for a few hours.

But of course it hadn’t worked that way.

“I do know her,” Cas says. “I feel like I do, anyway. You’ve been telling me about her since you met her. Don’t you remember?”

It’s true. Dean talks to the birds about everything. He just never thought they might understand.

He gives a wordless wave; even he’s not sure what it means, but Cas follows anyway.

“Dean!”

Dean is thankful for the doorway. If he hadn’t had it to hold on to he’s pretty sure he would have fallen to the floor with relief at the sound of her voice. Strong, sunny, and fully Charlie. She’s so happy to see him she looks like she’s going to bounce right out of her bed. Actually, if not for the healer holding her down, she probably would have. He can’t help it, he laughs.

“Charlie! You look like...like _you_ again. I’ll admit, you had me worried. But please listen to the healers. I’d like to see you out of here sooner than later.” He looks around, anxious, and from the corner of his eye he sees the excitement on Charlie’s face falter. It’s back when he looks at her square, but he knows she’s worried. “I’m okay, Charlie. I can handle the magic. For you.” He offers her a crooked smile. “I won’t lie, though. I’ll be a lot happier when you’re out of here.”

“Even the bakery’s better?” she says slyly, and then she remembers. “Dean, my bakery. Is it completely destroyed? What am I going to do?” Dean is there before she finishes, holding her while she cries.

“The bakery can be fixed up, Charlie. I think you may have lost an oven, but the rest...I’m pretty handy, and I’ll bet Sam will help too. It’s _you_ I’m worried about. I think…” He lets his words trail off, unsure if he should continue when she’s so upset already.

“You think someone tried to kill me, and I do too,” Charlie says matter-of-factly.

“I agree, if it means anything at all,” Cas says, stepping into the room.

A charged silence falls over the room, broken by the healer. “I don’t think this has anything to do with me,” she says, eyes shifting between the three of them. She retreats.

“Charlie. This is...Cas. He’s, uh, he’s…” Dean looks at Cas, then at Charlie, and his mouth goes dry. The whole awkward drive into town and he couldn’t spend two minutes thinking of a story to explain Cas?

But Charlie, as usual, comes to his rescue. “He’s the jay.” Her words are confident as ever.

Dean freezes, thoughts tumbling through his head like rocks down a river. Cas just smiles. “Dean showed you my feather,” he says.

Charlie grins right back at him. “Yeah. It knocked me out of my chair, actually. That’s some _excellent_ protection you’ve got. I’d love to learn it.”

“It’s not something I can teach, I’m afraid. It’s just part of me, of who I am. Wound into my DNA, as far as I know.”

Charlie’s hopeful face falls for a beat, but then she’s smiling again. “It’s good to finally meet you. And to be able to talk about you without worrying about my head being crushed by invisible boulders! Whew. That was really something. And I’ve been just _aching_ to talk to Dean about you. I couldn’t really even ask him questions about his dreams, I worried I’d get too close to dangerous territory. So I just listened and inside my head I screamed ‘he’s human you dolt! That’s why he can talk to you! I don’t know how it works, but he’s both bird _and_ human!’ And now look at you two!” She claps her hands a few times and clasps them under her chin. “I just love new beginnings,” she says dreamily.

Throughout this exchange Dean’s been standing in the doorway, trying to wrap his head around the ease of their conversation and to figure out exactly what it is the conversation is about. But something about Charlie’s last comment snaps him into reality.

“Charlie, this isn’t...I mean, we’re not…” He’s suddenly very tired, and he doesn’t want to finish. The chair he sat in for hours last night--had that really been just last night?--is still by Charlie’s bed, and he decides sitting is what he needs right now. His body isn’t sure; after two steps he stumbles. But Cas is there, a strong hand on his elbow and a strong arm wrapped around his waist.

The electric thrill that shoots through Dean at the touch nearly makes him forget where he is.

“Woah, Dean. Are you alright? Let’s get you to the chair.” Cas is so close Dean can feel his breath against his cheek, in his hair, when he speaks. Dean closes his eyes. It’s too much.

When Dean is settled Charlie presses on; either she hadn’t noticed his stuttering denials or she’s choosing to pretend she didn’t hear him. “This must be rough for you,” she says, reaching out to rest a hand on his knee. “I mean, Cas _is_ magic. He’s not going to be doing spells or anything, but just knowing that magic is actually an integral part of who he is…” She bites her lower lip, thinking. “But it’s not like he’s a shapershifter. You’d _never_ be able to have a shapeshifter in the house, let alone date one. They give off _huge_ magical vibes, no matter what form they’re wearing. Even _I_ feel a bit wonky around them. I don’t feel anything at all from you, Cas. You just feel…” She shrugs. “You just feel human.”

“As I keep trying to convince Dean, I _am_ human. I just happen to also be a bird some of the time.” He tilts his head. “Telling me I can’t be both a human and a bird would be like someone telling you that you can’t be both a woman and a witch, or a redhead and right-handed. Two pieces of a whole don’t have to be antithetical.”

Charlie opens her mouth to argue, then closes it with an audible clack. “That’s actually a really good explanation,” she says.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

And then Dean snaps.

“Aren’t you going to correct her, Castiel?”

Both Charlie and Cas snap their heads around to look at Dean. His voice drips with both bitterness and sadness.

Silence holds sway in the room, except for a deep hum that Dean realizes is coming from a charm tied to the pull cord of the window blinds. Is that what’s got him so off balance? No. It’s his too-fragile human heart, loving where it should not.

Finally Cas says gently, “What am I supposed to tell her, Dean?”

Dean scrubs his fingers through his hair. “She thinks--” The sound that comes from his throat is half growl half whimper of pain. “She thinks we’re..._together_. She doesn’t understand that you came to Kansas to find your mate.” Forearms resting on his thighs, hands hanging limply between his knees, Dean leans forward and lets his head hang down too. He can’t look at anyone. He doesn’t want to see their pity.

His insides already hurt too much.

But Cas is in front of him now, crouched down and trying to meet his gaze. “Dean,” he says. It’s only one word, but it’s full of...of almost too much. It’s low and soft and tentative and...is that longing? Dean looks up, confused, and he’s almost knocked over by what he sees. Cas’s face, so near his own, open and--and yes, there’s longing.

Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I thought for sure you’d figure it out when he turned into a human, Dean!” The words tumble from Charlie in a rush, like she’d been holding them back as long as possible but she just couldn’t take it anymore. “You understand birds better than you understand people. You know corvid behavior patterns, don’t you? Cas has been _leaving you presents_. You know what that means. He’s been _courting_ you.” She’s bouncing on the bed, alternating between bursts of applause and pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks.

Dean’s thoughts are a whirlwind. _Courting me? Yes, that’s how corvids behave, finding shiny things to attract a mate. But I’m not a bird. Not even part of the time._

He must have said at least part of that out loud, because Cas says softly, “I know you’re not a bird, Dean. But it doesn’t seem to matter.” He makes a face, like maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, then he tries again. “It doesn’t matter at all to me. Truly. Before you even saw me I spent weeks watching you with the birds, how gentle you were, how kind. And then I drew closer, listening to you talk about your life, about how deeply you care for your family, how perplexed you were that Charlie just plopped herself into your life and that somehow you and she were becoming a new kind of family even though you’re so very different. I saw the faraway look in your eyes when you talked about your mom, how you wondered if she’d be ashamed that you’re afraid of magic now when she was magic through and through.”

“She’d never!” Charlie shouts, making Dean and Cas jump. She clasps her hands over her mouth. “Sorry,” she says. “I know I shouldn’t interrupt. But your mom loved you, Dean. She loved _you_, not because you were perfect but because you were _you_. And anyway, you face those fears almost every day. She’d be proud, that’s what she’d be. Full of pride. And love.”

Dean smiles at Charlie, then quickly wipes away a tear. When had he started to cry?

“Dean,” Cas says again, and hearing his name in that low, rumbling voice makes him shiver. “When you said you’re not a bird and I said it doesn’t seem to matter, I was talking about that extra sense I have, the one that leads me to my mate. It started pulling me east about a year ago. I ignored it. I was happy with my flock, teasing tourists and soaring in bright blue skies. I lived in California, in Yosemite National Park, and it was a good life. But then my flockmates began to pair off, two by two. One day I just...left. I told myself I was exploring, seeing the world, but even then I knew I was looking for my mate. I followed that pull straight and true, like an arrow loosed from a bow, and it led me straight to you.”

“Not exactly _straight_,” Charlie mutters.

“Charlie!” Dean and Cas say at the same time.

“Sorry.” She doesn’t sound at all apologetic.

Dean had a toy when he was a child. His mom had used her magic to build it--she was always tinkering with her magic to make things--but it wasn’t one of her magic toys. It was a game, a puzzle. There were twelve blocks in a little cabinet, all stacked one on top of the other, and each had a tiny handle on the front of it. The game was to pull each one out just the right amount, so they lined up just so, and if you did there’d be a click and it would swing open to show the picture inside.

He’s been feeling like a puzzle for so long; not wrong, just incomplete. But Cas’s words, the truth in his blue eyes, _something_ about the odd bird-man crouched in front of him slides his last piece into its proper place. Dean could swear he hears the click.

And when all the pieces line up and the door swings wide, the picture he sees is Cas. Cas, reaching out to him.

He grips Cas’s shoulders and allows himself to revel in the electric thrill he feels when they touch. “You came all this way for...for me?” He knows the answer, he just needs to hear it again.

“Yes.”

“And you do understand that we can’t actually--I mean, we can’t be _mates_ in the truest sense of the word. No, uh, _nestlings_ for us.”

Cas smiles; his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Dean likes that. “I have a fairly comprehensive understanding of biology, Dean. It’s not news to me that two men cannot create a baby.”

Charlie giggles.

Ignoring Charlie, Dean continues. “And you’re okay with that?”

“In this no nestlings situation, am I with you?”

Eyes still locked on each other, Dean nods.

“Then sign me up,” Cas says.

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

And then Cas is there, right there, invading his space. But it’s good, it feels like the right thing. “Is this okay,” he murmurs, and Dean feels the question dance lightly across the skin of his cheek.

“Yes,” Dean tries to say, but his voice catches in his throat so he has to try again. “Yes. It’s...ah, it’s very okay.”

Cas’s rests a hand on Dean’s left shoulder, rubbing tiny circles with his thumb. He murmurs into Dean’s right ear, “I’d like to kiss you now.” He’s so close his lips brush against the sensitive skin of his ear.

Dean shivers. he doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he only nods. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

In the fraction of a second before Cas’s lips met his own, an odd thought flashes across Dean’s brain. _How does a bird learn how to kiss? Is it instinctive? Or has he just been watching people?_ But then all thoughts flee, because Cas is kissing him, and he certainly knows what he’s doing. The hand that had been on Dean’s shoulder threads through his hair, pulling him as close as possible. The kiss is chaste, soft as feathers; it can’t last more than a few seconds, but somehow it feels as if a lifetime has passed when Cas pulls away. Dean makes a needy, choking sound--where had that come from?--but Cas just smiles.

“Don’t let _me_ stop you.”

They both look at Charlie, Dean’s face flushed slightly pink, but he’s more exasperated than embarrassed.

“What?” she says, all innocence. “It’s not like I can just leave. You two are in. my. hospital. room. I’m pretty much stuck in this bed.” She brightens. “Unless you want to sneak me out of here!”

“Sorry, Charlie,” Cas says, his voice low and serious. “You need to listen to your healers. But when they tell you it’s time to go, just call. We’ll drive you home.”

She shudders. Dean understands, says, “I have a friend, Bobby Singer. He owns the auto supply store in town. He’s got a team of horses and a wagon for emergencies. I know he’ll let me borrow it.”

“Thanks,” Charlie says, relieved.

“Anytime,” says Dean. “But try to stay out of the hospital, okay? I’d really rather not come back here again.”

Dean feels Cas’s hand slide into his, smiles as their fingers lace together. He squeezes Cas’s hand. Cas returns the gesture.

Whatever happens, he won’t be alone.


	12. Chapter 12

The banner in the bakery window says “Grand Opening--Again!”. Dean, Cas, Charlie, and Eileen stand on the sidewalk outside. Dean chuckles at Charlie’s sense of humor: a smaller sign reads “Come for the baked goods, stay for the (lack of) explosions!”.

“Ready?” Eileen asks.

She looks around at everyone as she signs it, but they all know the question is for Dean. He shands up a little straighter, nods firmly, pulls the door open. A bell jingles, announcing them to the crowd inside.

“Winchesters!!” Charlie squeals when they make it to the counter. “Oh, and Cas. Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you out.”

Eileen grins wickedly. “Don’t worry, Charlie. He’ll be a Winchester before too long,” she says. She, Charlie, Sam, and Cas laugh. Dean feels a blush rise up his neck.

Dean looks at Cas. “Even you?”

Cas tilts his head, still birdlike. “Is she wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth, can’t find any words to say, then closes it. The blush rises to his cheeks.

“Oh, just bring me pie and all is forgiven,” he finally gets out.

“Done,” says Charlie. She slides a chocolate strawberry pie onto the counter with a flourish. “It’s a new recipe. I saved this one for you, even though _everyone_ wanted it.”

Dean grins. “Awesome.” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

“Don’t even think about that!” Charlie scolds. “It’s because of you I still have this bakery at all. You all helped me rebuild, and you even figured out it was Crowley trying to run me out of town!”

“That wasn’t really me,” Dean protests, if somewhat weakly. “Alfie--”

“Is over there, eating his heart out,” Charlie finishes. She waves at her one little table, where Alfie sits with two slices of pie, three cupcakes, and a look of pure bliss. Next to him sits a teenage girl with curly blond hair and mischievous eyes. Dean catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow. Alfie grins back and nods, mouths “Patience. She said yes!” Dean gives the kids a thumbs up.

Looking back to Charlie and her stubborn look, Dean raises his hands in surrender and says, “Fine, fine, you can give us the pie. I’ll even say thank you. But you’ve got to let me pay for the cupcakes Cas is going to pick out.”

Cas grins. “I’m picking out cupcakes?”

“A dozen. The moose is coming over. Not to mention his wife, who is, as they say, eating for two.”

Sam elbows Dean. “The moose? Really?”

“I don’t actually get to eat twice as much,” Eileen says, a scolding look on her face. Then she ruins it by smiling and resting a hand on her newly rounded belly.

“Maybe not,” says Dean, “but I’ve heard that little one likes chocolate already. And I aim to be this kid’s favorite uncle.”

“You’re the _only_ uncle,” says Sam, exasperated.

“For now.” Charlie glances at Cas, who is intently examining the nearby case of cupcakes.

As if he feels Charlie’s eyes on him, Cas looks up and smiles. “These all look delicious. We might need more than a dozen.”

“Don’t be greedy, Cas,” Dean says. “We know the owner. We’ll be back.”

Sam and Eileen join Cas at the case of cupcakes and Charlie turns her level gaze on Dean. “You _are_ going to ask him, aren’t you?” Her voice is pitched low, so no one else can hear.

Dean scrubs at the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to explain his conflicting emotions to Charlie. Finally he just looks back at her and says, “Someday. Probably.”

She’s about to ask a million questions when the teenage girl working the register calls, “Charlie! Help!”

Charlie reaches into another one of the display cases, pulls out a cherry tart, and shoves it into Dean’s hand. “Here. Eat this. I’m going to go help Alex, and then we’re going to talk. Don’t leave.” Before he can argue, she’s gone.

He bites into the tart, once again marveling at her talent. Now that Crowley’s not a problem, he can see what’s going to happen. She’s going to end up expanding, putting in tables and hiring a wait staff. She’ll be a smashing success--and she deserves every bit of it.

It was four months ago that Charlie’s bakery blew up. It hadn’t been as easy to rebuild as he’d thought when he’d reassured her in her hospital room. The building part had been relatively easy; he, Sam, and Cas had made short work of it. Eileen had helped at first, but once she’d found out she was pregnant and her morning sickness hit she and Charlie had mostly been on encouragement detail. Charlie herself was a menace with a hammer, which Dean teased her about mercilessly. But the explosion had done something to the “magical perimeter,” which Dean didn’t understand at all but Cas and Charlie tried to explain had something to do with touchstones and magical lines in the earth. Charlie had labored to repair them, and that part had taken quite a bit of time and energy.

But she’d put in the hard work, and thanks to Alfie she’s safe to open without worrying about another “accident.” Not long after Charlie got out of the hospital Dean had been at the garage with Alfie and Ketch, talking about how the cleanup at the bakery was going. One of Crowley’s messengers had come by to deliver something, and after the kid left Ketch had said, “I wonder if he saw anything. He was here the day of the explosion.” Alfie looked at Dean and said, “Didn’t you say there was a messenger here before the first accident too?”

And then Alfie just put everything together. Starting slowly, then speeding up as he grew more confident, he’d said, “Didn’t she say she’s from an important magic family? A powerful one? Crowley would be threatened by that. He’d want to get her out of town any way he could. And _he’s_ powerful, and clever, and he’d know exactly how to sabotage her. Those iron filings, and then whatever he put in her oven...didn’t you say Charlie thinks it was apple wood? It’s not like just anyone would know to do that.”

And then, catching on, Dean had added, “And Crowley’s messenger kids are everywhere! No one even notices them anymore!”

Dean and Alfie had gone to Charlie immediately. It had been easy to determine the truth--Crowley’s messengers were just kids, and had crumpled under the weight of Charlie’s glare. Things had progressed quickly; she’d been reluctant, but the only thing she could do was call her family. Soon they had “taken care of” Crowley. Charlie had reassured Dean that Crowley hadn’t been killed, he was only gone, but that he absolutely was not coming back.

Charlie’d always said her family was powerful. Apparently they were also very, very scary.

“Don’t I get to meet your parents?” Dean had asked.

“Those were just...second cousins? I think? Something like that. Mom and Dad wouldn’t come out here for something so small as this.”

“Oh.” The sound was strangled.

She’d groaned. “Dean, don’t look at me like that! I’m still me. Why do you think I moved out here?”

He’d hugged her. “To be my gay best friend.”

A hand on his shoulder brings Dean out of his remembering. He turns to see Charlie, wearing her serious face.

“Dean Winchester, why haven’t you married that angel of a man yet?”

“Charlie, I--”

He stops, unsure how to say what he means. Because of course he wants to marry Cas. They’re perfect for each other, every moment they spend together just builds on that foundation. They’ve been living together since that first night, when Dean was too afraid to let Cas change back into a bird and sleep in the trees. The first two months they lived in separate bedrooms, slowly getting to know one another, but now they share Dean’s big bed, memorizing every inch of each other. Dean’s skin warms at even the passing thought of nights pressed against Castiel.

But it’s weird, right? To fall in love at first sight with a naked bird-man in your backyard? To want nothing but his smile, the brush of the back of his hand against yours, the sound of your name in his voice?

Finally he says, “Life isn’t a fairytale, Charlie. It just...it can’t be that easy. You don’t just propose to the bird who turns into a man on your deck just because you made a wish in the moonlight.”

Charlie takes both his hands in hers and says, “Yes, you do. When it’s Cas, and you love him, and he loves you…” She rises on her toes and kisses his cheek. “Then that’s exactly what you do.”

Dean paces up and down the worn wood of his deck as the sun just barely peeks through the trees, painting the sky pink and gold. He hardly ever gets up before Cas, what with Cas being a literal early bird, but he didn’t actually sleep much last night. After tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling for hours he’d finally given up around three and has been alternating between sitting and pacing on the deck ever since.

Maybe he should have skipped that third cup of coffee.

But it’s too late to worry about that now. Cas will be getting up soon. He’s always up before the color of the sunrise fades.

Dean stops his pacing and stands facing the trees. Hands around his mouth in a cone shape, he makes a cawing sound he’s been working on with Cas. He waits, hoping he got it right, and after about thirty seconds a crow lands on the rail in front of him.

“Hello,” he says, ever polite to the birds. The crow doesn’t respond, so Dean gets to the point. “Okay, Cas should be out here in a few minutes. Could you gather as many of the local birds as you can? Just like we talked about?”

The crow shrugs her wing, a gesture Cas had taught him means yes, and then flaps off, crying out what Dean guesses must be instructions.

He lets out a breath. It’s still very odd to talk to a bird and to know it understands him. And to know it--in this case, _she_\--could turn into a person any time.

It doesn’t take long at all; within three minutes every available space holds a bird. Sparrows, chickadees, blue jays, meadowlarks, cardinals, crows, mourning doves, starlings, wrens, phoebes--he’s startled to actually see two woodpeckers and a cooper’s hawk as well. They’re all just perched, silent and watching. Waiting.

“Thanks for coming,” Dean says to them all. “It didn’t seem right, to do this without you. You may not understand everything that’s going on, but I know you understand love, and connections. And that’s enough.” He nods, as if to punctuate his statement, then just waits. He knows it won’t be long.

Just over thirteen minutes later--Dean paying very close attention to the time, having nothing better to do--Cas opens the door from the kitchen to the balcony, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He smiles at Dean through the steam, then reaches his free hand out until Dean catches it.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says. Then he notices the birds.

Dean can’t hide his grin, although he’s pretty sure his nerves are showing too. “I asked them to come. I thought they should be here.” He puts Cas’s coffee on one of the small tables on the deck, pats anxiously at his pocket, then takes Cas’s hands in his. Not for the first time, and hopefully not for the last, he marvels at the electric thrill he feels when they touch, and at how perfectly they just fit together. And just like that he’s not nervous anymore. This is Cas, there’s nothing at all to worry about. He smiles his first true smile of the day, then captures Cas’s lips with his own. _No rush_, he thinks, lost for a time in his love.

“Hey,” he says when they stop to catch their breath, their foreheads pressed together. They both smile. They’re still holding hands, and Dean knows he’ll never have a more perfect moment.

“Cas. Castiel. I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the second I realized that you and that bird with the funky feathers on his head were truly the same guy.”

“Funky feathers?” interrupts Cas, feigning indignation.

Dean runs a hand through Cas’s already bed-tousled hair, takes his hand again, then kisses his nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how I ever doubted it. Your hair and your feathers look exactly the same.”

Cas pretends to pout, but then laughs. “My flockmates have said the same thing, more than once. They all have _perfect_ hair, of course.”

“So do you,” Dean says, serious now. “Don’t ever change, Cas.”

Dean checks his pocket again, then says, “I have something for you. At first I thought of a ring, but that can come later, I guess. Because the first thing you gave me was a feather, a part of yourself, and that’s what I want to give to you.” He’s feeling nervous again, wondering if this is really the right thing. But Cas is looking at him with love and curiosity, with his head tilted just like he does when he’s a bird, and Dean knows it’ll be alright.

“I’ve told you about my dad, about how he got rid of everything that was Mom’s when she died. Everything she made, practically everything she touched. But I never told you that I hid something. In our old house I had a secret hiding place, and when we moved I somehow managed to keep it hidden. I needed it, I needed to remember her; I just couldn’t let go. Anyway…” He pulls the small black car from his pocket and puts it in Cas’s palm. “It’s the only magical thing I own. Mom made it for me when I was small, too small to even remember. But I want you to have it now. I can remember her without it.”

Cas’s eyes are solemn and wide, wet with unshed tears. “Dean, I can’t--”

“Please,” Dean says, wrapping Cas’s fingers around the car. His smile is shaky but true. “I know you corvids like shiny things. Look at the chrome on that baby! Besides,” he adds, “I have the life-sized version now.”

Cas looks at the car more closely and gasps. “Dean! It’s exactly like--”

Dean’s grin is steady now. “I know. It’s why I bought and restored her in the first place. Man, she was a wreck in the beginning. But she’s worth it.”

Then it’s just quiet. The birds are still watching, waiting expectantly. The words Dean’s rehearsed, over and over, tumble about in his mind. Words about love and commitment and marriage and forever.

And suddenly, out here in the cool morning air, looking into those fathomless blue eyes, he knows that they’re just...wrong.

“Cas. I never want to stop you from flying free. You belong to the sky, to the forest, to the moonlight. But every bird has to rest somewhere. So will you build your nest here? With me?”

And then Cas is kissing him, and he knows then that he’d been wrong. This _is_ a fairytale. Because when their lips meet the birds all take flight, swirl around them, and sing and caw with delight.

And so they lived, happily.

I can’t promise “ever after,” because there are always hard times. But even in the hard times Dean and Cas have each other, and their family, and their friends. And what more could they ask for?

Most mornings Dean wakes up with his limbs tangled up with Cas’s, breathing his scent. But some mornings he wakes and the bed is empty. His husband never leaves a note, but the feather left on his pillow is all the reassurance he needs. His bird-man may be off off, tasting the sky and flying free, but he’ll always come home to nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. I've had bits and pieces of this story inside me for well over a year now, and it's so incredible to see it all here, and with beautiful paintings too! Thanks for jumping into my imagined world for a time--I hope you left with lifted heart. 💙


End file.
